


Someone Like You

by iconicklaine



Series: Someone Like You [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 13:11:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 112,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iconicklaine/pseuds/iconicklaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt and Blaine keep up their very own version of "When Harry Met Sally" for years, a friendship fraught with sexual tension and longing, until the agendas of Adele (yes, THE Adele), a bored NY socialite and a super-sweet hetero couple bring our boys together. The only problem is... they're both in committed relationships.</p><p>Note: This story is AU after "Sexy" and assumes Kurt and Blaine graduate from Dalton in the same year. In this future fic, set in 2025, Blaine is based off of Season 2 Blaine. Originally posted on LJ and S&C.</p><p>Thank you to Mimsy (borogroves) for proofreading and coding this beast!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for fic overall: Infidelity, profanity, graphic sex, angst.

Kurt is not a fan of New Mexico--all of that brown, and tan, and more brown. And the heat. And those fucking ubiquitous yellow chamisa bushes that assail his sinuses the moment he leaves the confines of the Albuquerque airport. And the miles and miles of endless space. And nature.

"At least it's not Texas," he says, slipping on his Dior sunglasses, hand in the air like he's hailing a cab. 

From his black Range Rover, idling four doors down, Antonio spots him and smiles. He's used to Kurt's big city ways.

Antonio pulls up to the curb, gets out and greets Kurt with a quick hug. "Welcome back."

"Hello, Antonio," Kurt says, smiling for the first time in hours. He takes in Antonio’s appearance. He looks handsome in his new buzz cut, his lemon yellow button-down a nice complement to his olive skin. 

"New boots?"

Antonio looks down at his brand-new steel-toed, midnight blue cowboy boots, and nods sheepishly. 

"What did your wife say?" Kurt asks, giving him the once-over.

"Um..."

Kurt smirks. "She likes the boots, doesn't she?"

Antonio nods again. "A lot."

"Told you."

Ever the gentleman, Antonio holds open the front passenger door for Kurt and, after he's seated, loads all five of his bags into the back. When he slips into the driver's seat, he notices Kurt is already engrossed in his Blackberry; so he turns on KBAC radio and keeps quiet.

"It's obnoxiously hot, Antonio," Kurt whines, ten minutes into their fifty-minute drive up to Santa Fe.

"That it is," Antonio replies, turning up the air conditioner.

"How do you stand it? Seriously. _God."_

"I'm used to it." 

"I've been back exactly thirty-four minutes and I already want to go home," Kurt grumbles, texting a reply to a design client with yet another care question about his new upholstered walls.

"So, what's on the agenda this trip?" Antonio asks. 

"Doors. Doors and rugs, and so help me, if they haven't finished painting the damn kitchen, I'm going to hurt somebody."

Antonio laughs. After four trips, he knows Kurt is all bark and very little bite. They've spent hours together in this very car picking up samples, rounding up laborers, trying to track down obscure artists and muralists and carvers to satisfy the whims of their mutual clients, Clint and Deidre Alexander. He knows he hates coming here. Maybe this visit he'll let Kurt take him around, show him _his_ New Mexico.

"Doors and rugs, huh?" Antonio says. 

"And tile. Always tile. Will she ever just pick a tile?"

Antonio laughs again and speeds up now that they're outside of the city limits. "Where's Mr. James? Will we see him around?"

"Stop trying to dodge the question. Did the painters show up, or not?"

"Don't know, actually."

"But you _live_ in the same neighborhood…"

"Not quite. Look, Kurt. I've been up at the Galisteo ranch for the better part of the week at the beck and call of Clint's German colleagues, and before that I spent five weeks out at the San Antonio place. I don't have time to keep up with painters for Wife Number Four's kitchen."

Kurt exhales. "I know, sorry. I really should have hired that project manager, the one from Taos. But she would have _killed_ him, Antonio. She would have pierced his poor little heat-swollen heart and eaten it for breakfast."

This time, there is no laughter; they both know it's only a slight exaggeration.

They're at the base of La Bajada when Antonio asks again. "So--no Mr. James this trip?"

"No. No Mr. James," Kurt replies, eyes on his Blackberry. "And stop calling him that."

"Two weeks is a long time to be away from your boyfriend."

"Husband. Almost," Kurt says, flashing the ring on his left hand while still looking at his phone.

"Right."

"And not really," Kurt continues. "Paul is often called away. We're used to it."

"Oh, okay," Antonio replies, thinking about Sarah, his wife, and the early days of their marriage, when he would sleep on the couch whenever she visited her parents in Boulder. It was only ever for the weekend, but missing her killed him every single time.

"In fact," Kurt says, glancing up to look at Antonio for the first time since he got in the car, "it took us four months to go on three dates because we were both crazy busy. I don't know how we ever managed to get engaged."

"When's the big day?"

"Next May. Or June. We're trying to move a few things around… you know how it is."

"Sure," Antonio says, but he really doesn't. He hears a Joni Mitchell cover on the radio. Can't place the artist, but he likes it. So he turns it up. 

Kurt looks at him, raises one eyebrow and says, "Really, Antonio?"

"What? I can't like Joni Mitchell?" 

Kurt giggles and the two of them lapse into an easy silence. His texts and emails answered, Kurt stares out the window. The flat, piñon-dotted landscape gives way to high desert as they approach the outskirts of Santa Fe. 

On his first trip, Antonio had pointed out landmarks and places of interest, but the only information Kurt retained was the bit about the mountains. "You can see four mountain ranges from Santa Fe," Antonio had said, with the pride of a fifth generation local. "The Sandias in Albuquerque, the Jemez up by the Lab, the Ortiz over on the Turquoise Trail, and the Sangre de Cristos, which bump up right against Santa Fe."

Kurt smiles at the memory; these are the kinds of facts his father would love to learn. Burt Hummel would want to memorize the names of the mountain ranges so he could tell them to his customers, or the guys in his long-suffering bowling league. Sometimes Kurt memorized facts for him:

_"Brooklyn was America's first suburb. Did you know that Dad? It was all farmland, until they built the Brooklyn Bridge."_

_"Dad, I went sailing with friends up in Lake Superior. Did you know the lake is so big there are ships, giant ships, like ocean-sized ships lost at the bottom?"_

_"Paris is amazing, Dad. Did you know that the Eiffel Tower was only supposed to be a temporary construction?"_

_"No kidding?"_ his Dad would always say, committing the facts to memory. 

Except, he hasn't shared any facts with his dad lately. Not for months, maybe longer. Kurt thinks about calling him--he has a good thirty minutes before they reach the hotel--but decides he'll wait and call him later that evening. 

Kurt sighs. He never got over missing his dad. Most of his friends spend as little time as possible with their parents, but even at (almost) thirty Kurt still feels the pull of family. Maybe because he really never thought he'd have a brother, or someone to mother him, or the chance to be someone's "Uncle Kurt."

It's been at least a year since he made it back to Ohio. His brother Finn and his wife Erin are expecting their second, a boy, and their daughter Meg is growing so fast, he's embarrassed to admit he has no idea whom she counts as her best friends. "You can't say you really know someone if you don't know the names of at least two of their friends," Rachel used to say. 

_I really should know the names of Meg's friends. I should know more than her size and color preferences; princess dresses and vintage accessories shipped in ‘brown paper packages' are a poor substitute for face time._

Kurt picks up his phone and scrolls through his calendar, looking for three, even two days he could take off and sneak back to Lima for a visit. "Nothing for months," he mutters.

"I didn't catch that," Antonio says. "Do you need something?"

"No, thanks. Just thinking out loud."

_Do you need something?_

Antonio's question hangs in the air for a moment and then lands in the pit of Kurt's stomach. He shifts in his seat. He's been feeling out of sorts lately, as if something was off, but he can't figure out _why._

If he were honest with himself, he would admit he really hadn't tried that hard to figure it out. He's simply pushed on, filling his days with work and his nights with cocktails and openings and fundraisers. He'd told himself that there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for his irritability: aging. It was the big 3-0 pressing down on his spine, waking him up at 2:15 a.m. with the feeling that he'd left something behind, twisting his thoughts into knots he could never begin to untie. He'd ignored the voice that kept haranguing him with annoying little questions: _Is this what you really want? Are you happy? Are you even sure you know what happy feels like? What if there's more, so much more—and what if it's too late to find it?_

Kurt shakes it off. His life is everything his little gay-boy-in-Ohio heart could have hoped for, and more. 

_Do I need something? No. I'm amazing. Everything is amazing. Why would I need anything?_

"Almost there," Antonio announces. "Will you have time for some fun this trip?"

"Maybe. I hadn't really thought about it."

"Next week is Fiesta, it's a pretty big deal around here. And there's a benefit concert out at the Santa Fe Opera on Saturday," Antonio offers. "Everyone's excited about seeing Adele."

"Adele? Really? In Santa Fe?"

"It's a benefit for Alex Marin House," Antonio explains. "The people on the board have a lot of connections in the entertainment industry. Most of them are retired producers or agents or writers. Some of them are still in the business. This guy Mitch--he's on the board--he's recording with her right now."

"God, I _loved_ Adele in high school. I saw her in concert in New York, maybe, three years ago. She's still amazing," Kurt exclaims. "Alex Marin House. You told me about that place, right? It's a community center for GLBT youth."

"A shelter. For runaways. Most of them are gay, yeah."

"And your wife works there. Sarah?"

Antonio's entire face lights up at the mention of his wife's name. "Yes. She's the executive director."

"Wow. Very impressive, Antonio."

"She impresses me every day," Antonio says. "I still can't believe my luck."

Kurt smiles, thinking of his fiancé. Impressive is a word most people would use when describing Paul James, too. A brilliant political strategist. _New York Times_ bestselling author. Former development director of the Human Rights Campaign. One of President Cuomo's confidants. Kurt couldn't believe his luck, either.

_Do you need something?_

Antonio's question echoes in Kurt's mind, interrupting his thoughts again. "What the fuck?" Kurt whispers, hoping Antonio thinks he's just cursing at an email on his phone.

"Would you like to go? To the benefit, I mean?" Antonio asks. "I can ask my wife for an extra ticket."

Kurt sits up straight in his seat and claps his hands. "Oh my God, I just totally clapped my hands like a five-year-old," Kurt says. "I would love to! Oh! What will I wear? You're all so dressed down, here."

"Yeah. Dressing up is black jeans, instead of blue. Nice shirt. Nice boots. But I've seen some folks wearing suits to these things, so just do your thing."

"Okay. Thanks."

Kurt's phone buzzes. He gives Antonio an apologetic look and answers it on the second ring. "Deidre. Yes, I'm here. Yes, he was on time. We're almost there. Tomorrow, yes. First thing. I'll send photos after lunch. No. I'll walk over after dinner tonight. Yes. No, I don't mind walking. Deidre, really, are you sure you're a New Yorker? It's barely ten blocks. Yes. Fine. Of course, darling. I'll phone you later."

"She's a piece of work. I'm not sure how Clint can stand her," Antonio says, grimacing.

"He can't. I do it for him," Kurt says, turning his phone on vibrate and slipping it into his front pocket. "Why do you think they have so many houses? It keeps her occupied. Clint relies on all of us--the designers, the stylists, the art buyers, the fucking dog groomers--to keep her out of his hair."

"I'm just grateful I only answer to him," Antonio replies.

Sitting at a stoplight at the edge of downtown, Antonio glances at the Eldorado Hotel, Kurt's home for the next two weeks. One of only two structures for which the developers have defied the city's building ordinance, the faux-adobe looks down on its three-storied neighbors. He would have chosen something more authentic for Kurt--the Loretto, maybe--but he knows his efforts would be lost on the fashionable man who just wants to get in, get done, and get the hell out of dodge.

Antonio pulls up in front of the impressive hotel and nods to the bellhops, who begin unloading Kurt's bags. "Sure you don't want me to drive you over to the house tonight?"

"No. Go home to your wife. I like walking. That's why I chose this hotel over staying up at that Waves place."

"Ten Thousand Waves. She wanted you to stay up there?"

"Yes. Something about 'divine Japanese architecture' and 'master masseurs.' I don't have time for all that," Kurt says.

"It is pretty awesome. Sarah and I go up there every so often. Wooden tubs. Hot stone massage. Shooting stars--"

"Sounds lovely. And it's so not happening. I want to spend all of my time working on the house. I need this trip to be my last. No offense."

Antonio laughs and hands Kurt the keys to the Alexander house. "If the kitchen isn't done, don't do anything crazy. Just call me. I'll handle it."

"Whatever," Kurt says, flashing Antonio one of his genuine smiles. "Pick me up at ten o'clock? Doors tomorrow, rugs on Thursday."

Antonio offers Kurt a mock salute and then, after sliding into the front seat, lowers his window and shouts, "I'm serious. Nothing crazy!"

Kurt waves him off and marches into the building, a sandy-haired bellhop trailing behind him. 

Once in his room, he orders steak salad and goes over his schedule for the next two weeks. He could finish the project this trip, but it will be a miracle if Deidre gives him her final approval. Still, going over his notes is sure to calm the uneasy feeling conjured up by Antonio's unintentionally disconcerting question.

It doesn't.

He hangs up his clothes and considers calling Paul, but decides against it. He knows he won't answer; Kurt can't possibly compete with the fight for marriage equality. _National_ marriage equality. Every state--even Ohio. Finally. 

Elected to his second term the year before, President Cuomo wants it done like, yesterday, which means Kurt hasn't seen much of Paul these past few months. 

_Paul is making history. He doesn't have time for travel check-ins or idle conversation._

People often ask Kurt if he minds, if he's lonely without Paul, if he's frustrated or angry at the situation, but he isn't any of those things. He's ridiculously proud of Paul. And though he does love him, and is excited to spend the rest of his life with him, he doesn't need him. Not like Finn needs Erin. Not like his dad needs Carole. Which is why, in his opinion, they are perfect for each other. 

"What I _need_ is a drink," Kurt announces to the empty room. 

He leaves his travel jeans on and changes into a robin's egg-blue tailored button-down shirt. Then he heads down to the bar. The Agave Lounge is swank Santa Fe style, small plates and a room full of East Coast tourists, and locals who wish they lived on the East Coast.

He's just starting on his mojito, trying not to think about Paul, or Deidre's unpainted kitchen, or anything at all, when he notices his phone vibrating on the table. When he sees the name on the text, he nearly drops his phone.

**Blaine:  
Hey, Kurt.**

_Blaine Anderson._

_Holy hell._

**Kurt:  
Hey, yourself. To what do I owe the pleasure of your text?**

**Blaine:  
I know. It's been awhile. I'm glad you still have the same number.**

**Kurt:  
Of course I do. Why would I change it?**

**Blaine:  
I don't know. Bad breakup? Creepy stalker?**

**Kurt:  
Old friend who I haven't seen in five years?**

**Blaine:  
Four, dummy. And don't get on my case. I called you last year. New Year's.**

**Kurt:  
You're such a good friend. Seriously, are you just bored and thumbing through your contact list?**

**Blaine:  
Nope.**

**Kurt:  
Drunk texting? Because that would be so like you.**

_We're doing it again. God, how do we always get back here so fast?_

Kurt feels that old familiar buzz in his body, as though he can't wait to see what happens next. It's been nearly twelve years since they graduated from Dalton and damn it, Blaine still has this effect on him.

_This is what we do. We've always done this._

Kurt can't help but smile, thinking about the early days of their bizarre, intense friendship, when he and Blaine would circle around each other, tease each other, flirt shamelessly with each other, but never land. All those years and they never _got_ to anything.

Kurt thumbs over Blaine's last text. It feels like they've had this unspoken "thing" forever. It's still fun. It may be the most fun he's ever had.

**Blaine:  
I'm not drunk.**

**Kurt:  
What, then?**

**Blaine:  
I guess I miss you.**

**Kurt:  
Stop. You do not.**

**Blaine:  
I really do.**

**Kurt:  
What exactly do you miss about me?**

**Blaine:  
Your simple, demure, self-effacing ways.**

Kurt laughs, actually laughs out loud. Oh, this _is_ fun. Maybe this round of texting will last a few days and he'll barely notice he's stuck in guacamole land, catering to the tacky whims of a bleached-blonde trophy wife.

**Kurt:  
I miss THIS.**

**Blaine:  
All caps. You must be starved for a good texting.**

**Kurt:  
Are you for real? That's just... bad.**

**Blaine:  
How's Paul?**

**Kurt:  
Excellent. And yours?**

**Blaine:  
You can't remember his name, can you?**

**Kurt:  
Lyle?**

**Blaine:  
No.**

**Kurt:  
Luke?**

**Blaine:  
No.**

**Kurt:  
Come on. Give me a hint.**

**Blaine:  
No.**

**Kurt:  
It starts with L. I know his name starts with L.**

**Blaine:  
Liam. His name is Liam.**

**Kurt:  
How's it going with LIAM?**

**Blaine:  
We're happy. It's nice.**

Kurt ignores the tiny pangs of jealousy and reminds himself that they are just friends. Weird, flirty, slightly inappropriate friends; but friends-- _just friends._ And he has Paul. Paul James. Wonderful, doting, fabulous change-agent-for-good Paul James. Blaine has Liam and he has Paul. Lovely Paul.

**Kurt:  
I'm getting married.**

**Blaine:  
I heard.**

**Kurt:  
Wes?**

**Blaine:  
Rachel. I ran into her in L.A. last month.**

**Kurt:  
Oh.**

_Oh? Oh? That's all you can say? Can't you come up with some witty remark? Something heartfelt, maybe? Can't you give him a clue--?_

**Blaine:  
Am I invited?**

**Blaine:  
Kurt?**

Kurt gulps down half of his mojito and stares his phone.

**Blaine:  
You still there?**

**Kurt:  
Yes. Sorry. Why not? Just don't embarrass me with one of your serenades. I run in very respectable circles now, Anderson.**

**Blaine:  
Bor-ing.**

Kurt thinks about how they got to this place where Blaine wasn't the first person he called with his engagement news, where he didn't call Blaine at all. He did think of him. He just didn't call him. He had thought of him almost right away, in fact. But the realization that he had thought of his old crush just moments after accepting Paul's proposal unnerved him to the point that he _couldn't_ call him.

Kurt realizes he doesn't even know where Blaine is living now. _Is he still in Europe? Did he move to L.A. with Liam? A lot could happen in a year._

There was a time when they couldn't go one day without talking, or Skyping, or texting, or seeing each other, let alone one entire year. But that was before they grew up and moved on and went after "everything they always wanted." That was before his hand slipped out of Blaine's grip one last time. That was before Kurt decided to be fucking great at this life, this other life.

Though they rarely saw each other after their sophomore year of college, they remained good friends until graduation, Kurt at Pratt in Brooklyn, Blaine at Berklee College of Music in Boston. But after Blaine took the internship at a recording studio in London and Kurt started an apprenticeship at Blue, a design firm in SoHo, they talked less and less. There were boyfriends, and long hours, and new friends, and never enough time to get beyond catching up. There was a relief of sorts, a relief that somehow made the distance bearable. There was all of that, widening the gap and taking the bridge apart brick by brick.

Except there was also this: this back and forth. They held that "thing" between them up to the light and played with it, kept it close, private, almost sacred. 

And this: this tension, this teasing. They dared to think about it. Usually over text, sometimes over email, occasionally over the phone. They indulged in innuendo that anyone else would see as a precursor to sex, so much so that Kurt felt compelled to delete Blaine's texts and emails whenever one of their banter sessions coincided with Kurt having a semi-serious boyfriend. 

And above all, this: this abiding love. Their connection, forged in that bright, hopeful time of adolescence, could not be tempered by time, or distance, or updates on their everyday lives. 

There was this. There was always this.

_Do you need something?_

The hair on the back of Kurt's neck stands on end and goosebumps pop up on his arms. It's like Antonio is whispering his stupid question in Kurt's ear like Tinkerbell's psycho, evil twin and he just can't do this now. He's too vulnerable. He'll go too far with it. He might say something true.

**Kurt:  
I should go. I have an errand to run.**

**Blaine:  
So text while you run it.**

**Kurt:  
I need to focus. Sorry. Text me later?**

**Blaine:  
Did I offend you? You're so far from boring.**

**Kurt:  
Not offended. I really have to be somewhere. Text me later if you want.**

**Blaine:  
One more thing.**

**Kurt:  
??**

**Blaine:  
I like your jeans.**

**Kurt:  
Thanks.**

**Kurt:  
Wait, what?**

**Blaine:  
Turn around.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for fic overall: Infidelity, profanity, graphic sex, angst.

**_Kurt:  
I should go. I have an errand to run._ **

**_Blaine:  
So text me while you do it._ **

**_Kurt:  
I need to focus. Sorry. Text me later?_ **

**_Blaine:  
Did I offend you? You're so far from boring._ **

**_Kurt:  
Not offended. I really have to be somewhere. Text me later if you want._ **

**_Blaine:  
One more thing..._ **

**_Kurt:  
??_ **

**_Blaine:  
I like your jeans._ **

**_Kurt:  
Thanks._ **

**_Kurt:  
Wait, what?_ **

**_Blaine:  
Turn around._ **

 

**Kurt:  
No way.**

**Blaine:  
Yes, way.**

Kurt is seconds away from full-on freaking out. Blaine is here. In Santa Fe. In this hotel. In this bar.

"Holy fuck," he whispers. His phone buzzes.

**Blaine:  
You're not going to turn around?**

Kurt wants to look, _has_ to look, but he can't make himself do it. He stares at his phone, wondering if Blaine is behind him and to the right, or behind him and to the left.

_Has he been watching me this whole time? Why is he here? Is Liam with him? Oh my God, do something! You probably look like a nervous teenager. Turn around!_

Suddenly Kurt senses someone standing behind him. He would know that earthy, slightly citrusy smell of Blaine's cologne anywhere. He wants to reach out and grab him, pull him close and tell him how much he's missed his dear, dear friend, but he can't; he's frozen in his seat.

"Kurt," Blaine says in a soft voice, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. 

And there it is: sparks. Sparks and electricity and butterflies and dear lord, _why, why, why?_ Yup. _That's_ why he's scared to turn around. Texts are safe, emails are easy and this is going to be both dangerous and really, really hard. 

He decides to play it off. 

**Kurt:  
I'm scared to turn around because I'm worried you're not pretty anymore. Do you still have your hair?**

He hears Blaine's phone buzz, and then his hand is gone, and then he's laughing, and then he's just _there,_ in front of Kurt, a smile lighting up his whole face. He grabs Kurt in a patented Blaine Anderson Hug and plops down in the chair opposite Kurt, sets his phone on the table and presents his head for inspection.

"See? No bald spots," he teases, and it's everything Kurt can do not to reach out and run his fingers through Blaine's curls. "We're not _that_ old, Kurt. We're only thirty."

 _"You're_ only thirty. I'm still in my twenties."

"Barely. For a few more months."

"Still."

Blaine reaches across the table to grab Kurt's hand and squeezes. Kurt squeezes back and flashes Blaine a genuine smile. 

"It's amazing to see you, Kurt."

"Thanks. You too."

_Blaine is beautiful._

He looks the same—movie star-handsome, broad shoulders, tiny waist—but his style is relaxed. His clothes are expensive, though, the last vestiges of careful breeding and a private education. He looks happy, lit up, like he just found out he won a much-lauded prize. 

"So what are you doing in Santa Fe? How long are you staying? Are you staying here at the Eldorado?"

"Excited, much?"

"Come on! Can you blame me? This is Santa Fe, Kurt. Santa Fe. It's not the last place I ever thought I'd see you but..."

"That would be a swamp somewhere in Alabama..."

"Or a blinker town in Texas..."

"Ugh. Texas."

"But Kurt, this is bizarre. Bizarre and awesome."

Kurt gives Blaine an affectionate smile. "I'm here in the hotel, for two weeks. I'm redecorating a home for Deidre and Clint Alexander," Kurt explains.

"Should I know them?" Blaine asks.

"Not unless you read _Page Six_ ," Kurt quips. 

"Wow. Just, wow. I can't get over it. I saw you walk in and—" Blaine hesitates, looks almost sad for a moment, and then recovers and winks. "Of all the gin joints in all the towns..."

"Oh, no. Not the _Casablanca_ line."

"What? It's a great, classic film."

"True. But that line is cheesy and overdone. And no matter how hard you try, you're no Humphrey Bogart."

"Not since I stopped using product in my hair."

"More like not since ever," Kurt says. And then, "It's... good. Your hair. You look good."

"Well, you look stunning. Really. Sometimes I forget how gorgeous you are," Blaine says.

Kurt looks down at his drink, rubs his thumb along the condensation on his glass and wills himself not to blush. Blatant, earnest flattery; this is new.

"Best last line of a movie, though," Blaine says.

"Huh?"

 _"Casablanca._ 'I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.' Best last line."

"I'm partial to the last line of _You've Got Mail,"_ Kurt says.

"Meg Ryan over Ingrid Bergman? Say it isn't so!"

"Of course not. Ingrid all the way. Ingrid forever. But it is my favorite last line of a movie," Kurt says. 

Just as the words are out of his mouth, he regrets saying them. Because now he has to recite the line. And it shouldn't matter; it doesn't _mean_ anything. But it would sound like it might mean something, or maybe once did, and Kurt can't say it.

"I don't remember it. How does it go?" Blaine asks.

"No! _Some Kind of Wonderful._ 'You look good wearing my future.' Best last line. Or, almost-last line," Kurt says, in an attempt to divert Blaine's attention.

"That is pretty good," Blaine agrees. 

"It's right after Eric Stoltz stands up to the bullies, ditches Lea Thompson and gives Mary Stuart Masterson the diamond stud earrings," Kurt explains.

"Wow. You remember all that? How many times have you watched it?"

"Too many to count. My mom loved that movie," Kurt says.

"You never told me that." Blaine smiles warmly at the mention of Kurt's mother, as if he knew her, as if it was Elizabeth Hummel, not Carole, who baked him brownies (no nuts) when he came over for football Sundays with Finn and Burt. "It's the under-appreciated John Hughes film," he says.

"We never did get our own John Hughes, did we?" Kurt asks.

"For our generation? No. But we got _Harry Potter._ I think we win."

"Definitely," Kurt agrees.

From its perch on the table Kurt's phone lights up with a new message. It's nearly midnight on the East Coast, but it could be Paul, so he checks it. "Sorry," he says. Blaine waves his hand to show he doesn't mind, and sits back in his chair.

**Paul:  
Just got out of a 6-hour meeting with Javanovich and Wilder. No movement yet. Back at it tomorrow. You get in okay?**

**Kurt:  
Yes. Fine.**

**Paul:  
Awake enough to talk? I miss you.**

**Kurt:  
Miss you too. Okay if we talk tomorrow?**

Kurt knows he probably should excuse himself to talk to Paul, and he probably should text, _You'll never guess who I ran into._ But he doesn't feel like talking and he doesn't feel like explaining.

**Paul:  
No problem. Call me when you wake up. Love you.**

**Kurt:  
Love you. Goodnight.**

"Paul," Kurt explains, tucking his phone away in his pocket.

"Oh, right," Blaine says. "Want me to give you a few minutes?"

"No, it's fine. We'll talk tomorrow," Kurt says.

Blaine tilts his head a bit and searches Kurt's face. "What?" Kurt asks.

"I thought you said you were getting married."

"I am."

"Nothing romantic about a goodnight text," Blaine teases.

"Maybe not if it's coming from you," Kurt quips.

"Hey! I've gotten better!"

_"Really?"_

"Really. I'm so much better at it now. I'm practically a romantic savant."

Kurt raises one eyebrow and says, "Practically?"

"Stop. I'm not totally inept," Blaine says.

"If you say so."

Kurt smiles and Blaine's eyes are dancing, and Kurt thinks this is just the right amount of tension and playfulness to be fun but not enough to ruin his entire life. He can totally handle this. It's just a game, a game they've been playing since they were kids and it always ends the same way, so why worry? Why not just have fun with it?

"You haven't told me why you're here," Kurt says.

"You didn't ask."

"Sorry. I guess I'm still a bit surprised to see you," Kurt says.

"We've been here a couple of weeks, recording in a studio out in Galisteo," Blaine says.

"Galisteo? The Alexanders have a ranch out there, but I've only seen it at night."

"It's very John Wayne out there," Blaine says, smiling again. "The studio is amazing. She stays out there, in the main house."

"Who's she?"

"Oh, I thought you knew."

"Knew what?"

"I'm working on Adele's new album, _35,"_ Blaine says.

"What? Seriously?"

"Yeah, I uh, well, you know I was working for Sound Off in London, and she came in to listen to her friend record, and well, that's how it started. I've been working with her for about nine months now," Blaine explains.

"That's amazing! I'm so proud of you!" Kurt says. He _is_ proud of Blaine, but he's also a bit sad. Why didn't Blaine tell him? Why didn't he call him first thing? They listened to her first two albums so many times they could sing her songs in their sleep. This was big news, and yet Kurt seemed to be the last to know.

"Thanks. I'm still not over it, you know? I think I'm always going to feel like a stowaway in my own life."

"I feel that way sometimes. About Paul. And New York. And just, all of it," Kurt says.

"Good. I'm happy for you. You deserve an amazing, epic life, Kurt."

"Of course I do," Kurt agrees. "Are you singing?"

"No. Producing."

"No singing? Blaine—"

"Are _you_ singing?"

"You know I'm not. That subject is done and buried," Kurt replies. He knows he shouldn't push Blaine about this, but he does it anyway. "What about writing? Did you write any of her songs?"

Blaine looks away from Kurt. "No. I produce, play a little here and there."

"But that's not what you said you wanted. Blaine—"

"Another round?" The waiter asks, as if they've been sitting together all night.

"Not for me," Kurt says.

"I left my drink over there," Blaine says, pointing to the secluded booths in the back of the bar. "I should probably go get it."

"Do you want another?" The waiter asks again.

"No. Thanks. But let me pick up the tab for the group I was with in the back, and for this gentleman as well," Blaine says, handing the waiter his credit card.

"That's not necessary," Kurt protests.

"I know," Blaine says, again with the all-over smile. "Give me a minute?"

"Sure."

Blaine stands and pushes back his chair. "Don't go anywhere!"

Kurt nods and smiles, takes a sip of his drink. He turns and watches Blaine walk toward a smallish group of loud, happy people who get louder as he approaches. A stout blond man says something Kurt can't quite make out and Blaine reaches over and places his hand over the man's mouth to stop him. Everyone at the table erupts in laughter. Blaine is smooth, friendly, magnetic. Kurt can't take his eyes off of him.

Blaine says something to his friends, salutes them and turns before Kurt can look away. He watches Blaine come back to him, all smiles. _Does he have a daily quota for smiles or something?_ When he catches Kurt's eye he mouths, "musicians" and shrugs his shoulders. And then he's back at the table, drink in hand.

_Do you need something?_

"Hey," Blaine says, looking down at Kurt.

"Hey. I should go."

"Go? But we just started—"

"No, I meant it. The text. I have an errand," Kurt says.

"At this time of night?"

"It's not that late. And it's not far," Kurt replies.

"Shit, Kurt, we haven't seen each other in ages, and now you're just walking out after fifteen minutes? This is... it's just so awesome to run into you like this," Blaine says. "Could we at least have lunch tomorrow? Or breakfast? Or coffee? How about coffee?" 

There's something about the eager tone in Blaine's voice that makes him do it, even when he knows he absolutely shouldn't, not tonight. This much, he knows. He should wait to spend time with Blaine until he's had a good night's sleep, until Antonio's stupid question leaves his brain, until he talks to Paul and feels rooted again.

He should wait, but he doesn't.

"You could come with me," Kurt says softly.

"Yeah?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"Let's go, then," Blaine says, standing. 

They pick up their glasses and down what's left of their drinks in one gulp. And then they giggle. It's another moment when they say nothing and yet know everything, and Kurt thinks maybe they _can_ do this in person. Maybe the line will stay firmly in place, even though there's no Paul or Liam or gaggle of obnoxious former Glee-clubbers and Warblers to remind them who they are and who they never will be. 

"Lead on," Blaine says, following Kurt out of the bar. They walk out the main entrance into the cool night air. Even after four trips to Santa Fe, Kurt often forgets he's in the high desert at seven thousand feet, where the temperatures drop considerably at night. 

"So where are we going?" Blaine asks, as they make their way up San Francisco Street toward the Plaza. The streets are quiet, just a few tourists milling about, peering in shop windows. Several blocks ahead the Saint Francis Cathedral looms, its round arches and rose window lit up by artfully-placed floodlights. 

"The Alexander house. It's just a few blocks off Marcy."

"This is the house you're decorating?"

"Yes. I have to check on the progress," Kurt explains.

"You seem to know the city well," Blaine says.

"Not really. Just here, around downtown," Kurt explains.

"It kind of looks like a movie set, or Disneyworld," Blaine says. "Everything adobe, even the Starbucks. I like it."

"It's fine for a weekend getaway, but I've had quite enough of the chile wreaths and earth tones, thank you very much," Kurt says. "And Blaine, have you not noticed all the women wear the same thing? It's matchstick skirts in hideous colors, wide belts and turquoise and silver squash-blossom necklaces. It's like a fucking uniform."

"Like I said... Disneyworld," Blaine says.

They catch up, and volley, and, for more than two blocks, walk a little too closely. They pass the independent bookstore where Kurt spent hours poring over photography books, looking for a gift for Paul; and the jewelry store where he found black pearl earrings for Carole's birthday; and the little folk art shop where he seriously considered buying a Day of the Dead nativity scene for himself, but decided against it when he realized he might be the only one who would appreciate the irony of skeletal Mary and Joseph in Mexican hats.

After they cut across the charming central Plaza, Blaine stops to read a sign outside the Palace of the Governors and Kurt takes him in again. He looks young, like he did in college: cuffed jeans covering his still-tight ass, v-neck t-shirt hugging his still-amazing arms, a light stubble gracing his still-gorgeous, wrinkle-free face. And just like that, the goosebumps are back, along with that old familiar want that took up residence at the base of his pelvic bone when he was sixteen and stayed there until he forced himself to get on with his life.

Blaine catches Kurt looking at him and smirks.

"What?" Kurt asks, trying for innocent.

"You can look. I don't mind," Blaine says.

"I was just thinking, I forgot how short you are," Kurt says. "You seem so much taller in your texts."

Blaine places both hands over his heart and steps back. "You wound me, Mr. Hummel."

"Whatever," Kurt says with a giggle, marching off toward Marcy Street.

They walk in comfortable silence for two blocks and then Kurt stops in front of a long, tall adobe wall rising up into a high curve at the entrance. "This is it," he says, pushing open a blue-painted wooden door. They walk into the hidden courtyard and follow a slate pathway to the front door of a large, traditional adobe home.

"It's historic, which basically means I have to wait for fucking ever to get permits," Kurt says. He digs in his leather satchel for the keys and opens the front door. "I'm replacing this door first thing tomorrow."

Kurt flips on lights in the foyer and the great room. Blaine walks around slowly, mouth agape. Somehow, Kurt's managed to create a clean, modern, sophisticated design while keeping the integrity of the Spanish and Native American cultural influences intact. "Kurt, did you _do_ this. I mean, this is, how did you do this?"

"It's not rocket science," Kurt says, heading for the kitchen. "Just get rid of the kitsch, keep the palette simple and work with wonderful craftspeople and artists to—" 

Kurt walks into the kitchen, finds it still unpainted and— "Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!" 

Blaine runs to the kitchen, shouting, "Are you okay? What—?"

Instantly exhausted and defeated, Kurt sits down on the kitchen floor and bangs the back of his head against charcoal-gray cabinets.

"Um... Kurt?"

"They didn't." Bang. "Paint." Bang. "The kitchen." Bang.

Blaine drops to the floor and sits, his legs outstretched and just an inch away. Kurt is wound tight. He feels like he's about to explode. This could set him back a week.

Blaine runs his thumb along the inside of Kurt's wrist to calm him; Kurt relaxes his shoulders almost instantly. It's a familiar gesture, one that takes him back to a time when Blaine was the only person who could truly find him under the panic, the only boy who could see him, and reflect that back to him to prove that he truly was okay.

He's torn between pulling his hand away and leaning in closer when Blaine says, "A friend of Adele's wanted to send her his piano to use for this album, don't ask me why. The friend lives up in Taos, so Gretchen—she's Adele's assistant—she scheduled movers to pick it up from his house and deliver it to the ranch."

Kurt pushes back against the cabinet, his breath slowly evening out. He listens.

"So while Gretchen is scheduling the movers, Mary, the girl who runs the office at the studio, she's looking over at Gretchen, kind of nervous. When Gretchen hangs up the phone Mary says, 'Call two more moving companies and schedule a pick-up for the same time, same day.' Gretchen looks at her like she's crazy," Blaine says, still rubbing Kurt's wrist.

"Then Mary explains that if we want the piano moved that day, we'll have to call at least three companies so that we can get one to show up. She says it's _mañana,_ which means—"

"Tomorrow."

"Right. Tomorrow. Everything is tomorrow. It's the way they do things here," Blaine explains.

Kurt turns his head to look at Blaine. "I noticed," he says, with a rueful smile.

"You probably get more done in one day than most people here get done in a month. It must drive you crazy," Blaine says.

"You have no idea."

Kurt looks at Blaine, so open, so happy to see him, so willing to be here on this kitchen floor, and he can't stop himself. He rests his head on Blaine's shoulder and exhales. They're quiet for a moment, Blaine still rubbing Kurt's wrist. It feels natural, as if they've been doing this all their lives, and yet odd, as if they are out of time, living in some alternate adobe universe.

"We're sitting on the kitchen floor of a four-million dollar home in Santa Fe, talking about Adele's piano," Kurt says.

Blaine laughs. "It's an aerial moment."

"Explain, please," Kurt says, trying _not_ to nuzzle Blaine's neck.

"You know, the moments when you suddenly see yourself from above, usually when you're doing something absurd, or embarrassing, or... unbelievably, unexpectedly... wonderful."

"Oh."

Compliments. Cuddling. Serious sentiment. What the hell is going on with Blaine? Kurt decides a change of subject is for the best. "So what happened with the piano?"

"Oh, well, Mary was right. The day of the move, only one company showed up, and they were two hours late," Blaine replies.

_"Mañana."_

Blaine is quiet for a few moments and then asks, "Kurt, you never did tell me… what's the last line in _You've Got Mail?"_

Kurt sucks in his breath. He wants to stand up and shake off Blaine's soft voice and the press of his thumb, clear his head and find his bearings. But that would be too obvious. Blaine would figure out that the words _do_ have meaning, or did at one time, and they don't do that. They don't get that close to the truth. He could pretend he doesn't remember, but Blaine would simply look it up on his phone, and that would be just as awkward.

"Tom Hanks says, 'Don't cry, Shopgirl. Don't cry.' And Meg Ryan says, 'I wanted it to be you. I wanted it to be you so badly.'"

Blaine's thumb stops but doesn't leave Kurt's wrist. After a moment he places his hand flat against Kurt's, palm to palm, fingers lined up perfectly, and says, "Yeah. That's a good one."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for fic overall: Infidelity, profanity, graphic sex, angst.
> 
> This chapter is NC-17.
> 
> Also, I scoured YouTube to find the perfect live performance of "Someone Like You," so please "PRESS PLAY" when you see it in the text. It will definitely enhance the reading experience.
> 
> Originally posted in two parts on LJ.

Chapter 3A

"Invite him. I want to meet him," Adele says, eyes dancing. She's all in black today, an oversized t-shirt with a scoop neckline over black leggings, bare feet, her toes painted bright blue.

"It's not a good idea," Blaine replies.

"Barry says he's a stunner," she adds, poking him in the side.

"Never trust drummers." He pauses, looks at her sheepishly and then adds, "But yeah, he is."

"Angel said you were flirting with him." She wants to play; he can tell.

"Never trust guitar players either."

"You're the most untrustworthy of all," she teases.

"Am not!"

"Bring him 'round, then," she says.

"No."

"Gretchen said after you spotted him, you were fucking mute for ten full minutes."

"For that matter, never trust assistants. Or anyone you know. Ever. I was _not_ mute. And it was _not_ ten minutes. I was just surprised," Blaine says.

"Let me ring him. He'll probably piss his pants—"

"Not Kurt. He's unflappable," Blaine says.

"Ask him. I'll sing all of the old stuff you used to moon over in between studies." She's full-on teasing him now; Blaine can't help but smile.

"Adele, _please._ I really shouldn't."

"Ah, so that's how it is. You want to, but you shouldn't, so you won't," she says, getting up off of her stool. "In a bit of a mess then, are you?"

"What? Because of Liam?"

"You said it, not me."

"It's nothing to do with Liam. Kurt and I, we have... unfinished business."

"A _big_ mess, then."

"It's just better if we meet for coffee, or something," Blaine says.

"So that's how it is? You can't trust yourself around this stunner of yours?"

"I can. I do. I just... it's better this way."

"What did you get up to last night, then? A bit of--?" Adele makes a bizarrely crude gesture with one hand while shaking her hips.

"Stop. No. Of course not. He showed me this house he's renovated for a client, and then we walked back to the hotel. Simple."

Except it wasn't simple. They'd been doing their thing, and it was kind of delicious the way they slipped back into it like no time had passed since their last meeting. They were catching up and teasing each other and Blaine was super excited about spending as much time with his friend as possible. But then Kurt shifted closer to him, rested his head on Blaine's shoulder and suddenly everything became very complicated.

At the mere memory of Kurt's soft exhalation, of their fingertips pressing together like leaves under glass, Blaine feels the ache. The ache almost killed him twelve years ago, as he watched Kurt go off to New York with so much left unsaid. He'd been able to keep the ache at bay for years, talk himself out of it, had moved across oceans to avoid it, but it had never really left him. The ache remained, dulled over time, but ever-present. And last night, in Kurt's presence, away from the familiar and the shared, the ache had taken over and spread through his entire body, leaving him frustrated beyond belief.

So no, inviting Kurt to an exclusive performance in a private room, in a tiny nightclub, thousands of miles away from Liam, and reason, and the promises he'd made to his boyfriend in earnest, was _not_ a good idea.

"It's not a good idea," Blaine insists.

"Don't care," Adele says. She pecks him on the cheek, hands him her sheet music and says, "Invite him. I just want to meet him. I'll keep watch, don't worry. I won't let you do anything I would do."

"Gee, thanks." Blaine says, watching her bound out of the studio in search of lunch.

They've been at it all morning, laying down tracks for what Blaine hopes will be her first single, "So New." She's writing about love again, but this time it's about her loving husband, not some "rat bastard." She's writing happy these days, and that's why she chose Blaine to produce. He's talented, smart, earnest and good. But she chose him because, for the most part, he's a positive guy. Even with the ache, quiet and awful, pressing hard into his spine, he's happy—or as happy as he hoped to be. And he's good at it. Which is why he's recording with Adele. In this happy, contented, settled life of hers, Blaine fits. 

If you were to ask his friends (namely Wes and David), they'd say he was _pathologically_ happy, that it wasn't real; that underneath his eternal optimism was a desperate need to please, to be polite, and that in seeming happy all of the time, Blaine was just doing what was expected of him. Could he really blame his whole approach to life on good manners? 

"I could blame a lot on good manners," Blaine mumbles. 

Kurt, for instance. He could blame his relationship with Kurt on good manners. The day he met him Blaine knew Kurt was a spy, but he couldn't help but show him around, offer him kindness and coffee, dry his tears. That had been the beginning, a beginning he could have avoided if he had simply been less polite, or if he had called him out, or if he had let one of the others handle him.

Despite how things turned out, he wouldn't change a thing about that day.

Later, after Kurt entered his bloodstream and staked a claim on his heart, his need for decorum would keep him from doing anything about it. Because it wasn't just his heart. Oh, no. It was something powerful and raw and needy that kept him up at night, trying to ease the pain of want until he was so sore he wanted to cry. He could never risk his friendship with Kurt just to satisfy his teenage hormones. He knew Kurt felt something similar, or had at one time, but they never found the right moment. _He_ never found the right moment. 

Midway through college, he convinced himself it just wasn't meant to be. And even if they did get together, they were still so young. It wouldn't, _couldn't_ last. But their friendship would stay pure, and it _would_ last. It would _outlast_ the boyfriends, and the distance, and maybe even a husband. 

Except their friendship didn't last, not really, not in the way he wanted it to. The want between them grew into its own thing, and then it became _their_ thing, and soon they couldn't interact without the teasing and the "what if" looks and the "you know you want it" subtext. And when the ache became unbearable, Blaine began to drift. And when Blaine began to drift, Kurt began to pull away. And they both went on to find other confidants and friends. Every once in a while, they took the want out for a ride with the help of modern technology. And it was fine... mostly because they hadn't really been alone together in years.

He could have avoided Kurt last night. They were in the back, Adele's musicians and Mitch's engineers and Gretchen. He could have just watched him from afar, never said a word, and let it be one of those movie moments, two friends who keep missing each other—sometimes by chance, sometimes by choice. He could have continued to watch him, let the ache come alive at the sight of him, wind its way up, vertebra by vertebra, until it burned hot at the back of his neck.

He could have let him go again. But he couldn't help himself.

Besides, he had better manners than that.

****

"Could you line them up next to each other so I can compare them?" Kurt asks the frustrated, sweaty workers at Santa Fe Entrance. His request earns him a series of groans before a tall-ish worker calls for an extra pair of hands to help out.

Kurt watches as four men move three giant, hand-carved doors to lean against a wall. He's done with doors, absolutely _done,_ having spent the better part of the day roaming around the massive outdoor showroom looking for the perfect front door for Deidre's perfect adobe home. He is in no mood. He's hot, he's dusty and he forgot his sunscreen. And he may be just a little bit annoyed with himself for his behavior with Blaine last night. Just a little.

"It's not as if I slept with him, or even kissed him," Kurt mutters, staring at the doors. Still, he _did_ let his guard down. He let Blaine in. Just a bit. Not too much, but enough that he can't stop thinking about him when should be thinking about doors and rugs and unpainted kitchens and guest lists and honeymoon plans and Paul.

After Kurt gave Blaine a tour of the rest of the Alexander house they simply walked back to the hotel and said goodnight, promising to get together again at some point in the coming week. It was innocent. Polite. Friendly. "Call me. I'm in room 415," Kurt said, regretting it almost instantly.

_Why did you tell him your room number? He has your cell. Now he probably thinks you want him to—_

"Can we eat yet? It's almost two-thirty," Antonio asks, interrupting Kurt's internal rant.

"Thank goodness you're back," Kurt says. "I have to get out of the sun. I need air conditioning, and liquid something, and food."

"Definitely food," Antonio agrees.

"Let me just take one last picture of all three lined up together," Kurt says, motioning for the workers to step out of the way. Two of the men glare at him, the new helper just stares and the tall-ish one surprises him with a wink.

"Really, now?" Kurt says just loud enough for Antonio to hear. "Didn't peg him for family."

"New Mexicans are never what they seem," Antonio says, smiling.

"As lovely as you all are, and I do appreciate you so very _much,_ I need you to move. Step away from the doors. Yes. Just like that. A little bit further. Little bit... further. There! Thank you!" Kurt snaps one more photo and then turns on his heels to go back to the car.

"He'll call you," Antonio says, nodding to the group of men, spent from their day attending to the demanding Kurt Hummel. 

Antonio turns to leave and then turns back, adding, "About the doors. He'll call you _about_ the _doors."_ The tall-ish man frowns and kicks up dust with his boots. 

As he gets in to his Range Rover, Antonio chuckles. "You could have worked that to your advantage," he says, turning on the car. "Maybe you could get free delivery or something."

"What are you talking about?" Kurt asks.

"The tall one. He likes you."

"So?"

"Oh, I see. You're so used to being an object of interest, it bores you," Antonio says.

Kurt laughs. "I like that, 'Object of interest.' It makes me sound like a spy."

"Maria's, or that soup place you like?" Antonio asks, pulling out into lazy midday traffic.

"Maria's. I need a drink."

"Maria's it is."

It's only two miles to the restaurant. They sit in silence while Kurt sends dozens of photos of doors to Deidre. It's nearly six o'clock in New York, and he knows she's busy getting dressed for this event or that fundraiser, so he doesn't expect a prompt reply. She won't want any of the options he sends her anyway. He'll probably spend another long, hot day hunting for just the right door, dripping in sweat and covered in desert. Just the thought of it makes him want to guzzle tequila like a college freshman.

Maria’s is quiet, its yellow vinyl tablecloths wiped clean and shiny. The sign near the entrance warns, “The Chile is HOT today,” the word “HOT” filled in with white chalk. They're settled into a nondescript booth, margaritas ordered, Antonio shoving chips and spicy homemade salsa into his mouth, when Antonio asks, "What's with this housewife stuff?"

"Speak English, Antonio."

"Drinking in the middle of the afternoon."

"Since when is that the domain of housewives?" Kurt asks.

"I don't know. Sarah watches that show. They all drink in the afternoon, before their kids get home from school."

"Charming," Kurt says, sipping his water.

_"Real Housewives_ of something."

"Right. Which city are they tarnishing now? Des Moines? Saskatchewan? Somewhere on Guam?"

"Hell if I know," Antonio replies. "So why the need for alcohol, my friend?"

"I might have... run into someone last night who makes me feel... uncomfortable."

Antonio sits up taller in the booth, his expression serious. "Somebody giving you a hard time?"

"No, no. Nothing like that. I just ran into an old friend at the Agave," Kurt explains.

"Small world."

"Isn't it just?"

"Okay, fill in the blanks. I'm no good at guessing," Antonio urges.

"We're friends, right? You and me?"

"Well, you've said 'no' to every dinner invitation..."

Kurt frowns. He has turned Antonio down in favor of pushing on with work, or hiding out in his hotel room, pretending he's on East Coast time. "I know I haven't been social, but—"

"Shit, I'm just teasing. Of course we're friends."

"I didn't mean to assume—"

Antonio fixes him with a stern gaze. "I let you pick out my boots. Boots are sacred, man."

"Right. So we're friends, and you wouldn't betray a friend's confidence, even if said friend wasn't technically doing anything wrong but still didn't want anyone to know about it?"

"I work for Clint Alexander, Kurt. Friend or no friend, I'm fucking Fort Knox," Antonio assures.

"Got it. Good. Okay, I might have, at one point in time, harbored unrequited _feelings_ for this friend, and may have, over the years, indulged in a bit of... flirting with him, nothing major, nothing untoward, but still very... intense. And he may have, from time to time, flirted back. And it's been five years since we saw each other and even longer since we were alone together... in the same room... until last night, when I _may have_ had a fit on Deidre's kitchen floor and then possibly... rested my head on him for comfort. Literally."

"Huh."

"Huh? That's your only response? Huh?"

"I'm not used to 'Nervous Kurt,'" Antonio says. "You're not telling me something."

"No, I—"

Kurt is cut off by the arrival of their gigantic margaritas. Kurt thanks the waitress and sucks at least half of his down like it's his first drink in months.

"Yeah. You are definitely leaving something out," Antonio says.

"I'm not."

"Give."

"There's nothing more to it, really."

Antonio raises one eyebrow and folds his arms, not willing to budge.

"Okay, fine! I was in love with him when we were kids, and I'm not anymore, I'm _not._ But he's insanely gorgeous and so charismatic—I mean really, he's _magnetic_ —and he knows me, and we get each other and it's kind of... he just _does_ something to me..."

"Something no one else does?"

Kurt looks directly at Antonio, then down at his hands, unable to admit it to his face. "Yes. And it's just a bit dangerous to be here, with _him_ here, and our boyfriends _not_ here. You know?"

"Fiancé. You have a fiancé."

"That's what I said."

Antonio chooses to ignore Kurt's slip and takes another sip of his margarita. "Don't be so hard on yourself. You love Paul, right?"

"I do, yes."

"And this guy—"

"Blaine. His name is Blaine." 

Antonio doesn't miss the way Kurt's eyes twinkle and the corners of his mouth turn up when he answers, his voice soft and reverent. 

"And this guy Blaine, he has a boyfriend or someone he loves?"

"He does."

"So don't worry about it. We all have old flames and people we were once crazy for who pop up every now and again. It's part of this complicated life we live. You never pursued more than friendship before. Why would you cross the line now?"

"I wouldn't."

"Right, so stop worrying." Antonio reaches over to pat his hand and Kurt downs the rest of his drink. He motions to the waitress to bring him another.

"You're right. You're right. I know you're right," Kurt says. "We're friends. We're just good friends."

Kurt turns to look out the window, but not before Antonio sees the look in Kurt's eyes. He knows that look. 

Antonio relaxes his shoulders and sinks into the booth. "So what's up with this Blaine guy? Is he in town on business?" 

"Oh, you'll love this. It proves your small world theory," Kurt starts.

"It's not really _my_ theory, it's pretty much agreed upon by the masses," Antonio interrupts.

"Must you?"

"Sorry."

"He's producing Adele's new album at a studio out in Galisteo. How's that for a coincidence?" Kurt is so excited he's bouncing in his seat. 

"That's Mitch's studio. He's on the board at Alex Marin House, remember?"

"See! Small world!"

"Or something."

"Explain," Kurt says.

Antonio doesn't want to explain. He doesn't want to tell Kurt what he knows to be true, knows in his bones: Kurt will never marry Paul because this Blaine guy, he's the one. He's Kurt's Sarah. Antonio could see it all in that one moment. He saw the longing, the truth, the entirety of it all in that one fleeting look, the look Kurt didn't want him to see.

The look is never wrong.

That, and Kurt just lied to him for the first time. And Kurt never lies. 

Antonio has a knack for spotting what he calls "soul love." His friends give him shit about it, tell him he let too many of Sarah's new-agey woo-woo friends "freak his mind." But he's always been able to see it, the look, since he was a child. His grandmother, the one with Nambé blood, told him it was a gift passed down from her family.

So he knows. He knows Kurt and this Blaine guy are tethered to each other, and no other love, no matter how right or good or seemingly perfect, can break it. But he won't explain this to Kurt, because though he and Blaine are tethered to one another, it doesn't mean they will ever accept it. Being tethered doesn't outweigh free will.

So instead of telling Kurt all he knows, he simply says, "Maybe it's fate."

Kurt turns back to him, very interested but trying to pretend he's anything but. "Fate? Try coincidence."

"No. It's fate."

"Antonio, really. What the hell are you talking about?" Kurt demands. "If it's fate that Blaine and I meet here in this tumbleweed hellhole, what, pray tell, is the purpose?"

"No, no. I'm not telling you your whole life," Antonio says. "You've got to figure some of this shit out on your own. If I tell you, you'll just toss it aside. But if you figure it out yourself, you'll believe it."

"You're seriously freaking me out, Antonio."

"Sorry. Wanna split some tableside guac?"

"Absolutely not."

"Okay." Antonio smiles at Kurt and then looks down at his menu. "How about spicy shrimp? Will you split that? Then I'll get the bean burrito with _posole."_

"What? Are you seriously changing the subject?"

"We can talk about it, if you want, but it won't change anything," Antonio says.

Kurt stares at Antonio, mouth open. He wants to say something, anything, to refute Antonio's confident yet totally ludicrous (ludicrous!) proclamations about fate, but words fail him. He doesn't believe in fate any more than he believes in God, or angels or the fucking tooth fairy. But then again, he had no reason _not_ to believe.

"I can see you working it out," Antonio says. "Good."

Kurt's phone buzzes on the table.

**Blaine:  
Come out tonight. Adele is giving a private concert at The Pink Adobe.**

"It's from Blaine. He's invited me to a thing with Adele," Kurt explains.

"At The Pink?"

"The Pink Adobe."

"Locals call it 'The Pink.' You should go," Antonio says.

"How do you know about it?"

"Mitch invited us."

"The coincidences are really starting to stack up, aren't they?" Kurt says, staring at his phone.

"Concentric circles, man. Concentric circles."

"I'm not even going to ask what that means," Kurt says. Antonio laughs and waves the waitress over to take their order.

**Blaine:  
Please come. Adele wants to meet you.**

**Kurt:  
I'm saving this text forever.**

**Blaine:  
So you'll come? She's sort of being annoying about it.**

**Kurt:  
I'll meet you there. What time?**

**Blaine:  
Ten-ish. I'll put you on the list.**

**Kurt:  
This is all a bit New York for the land of shitkickers and ten-gallon hats, isn't it?**

**Blaine:  
You just said shitkickers. I'm saving this text forever.**

**Blaine:  
And you're a snob.**

"I ordered you the _chile rellenos,"_ Antonio says. "Kurt?"

"What? Oh, sure. Yes. Thank you."

Antonio grins and goes back to attacking the chips and salsa.

**Kurt:  
I accept that about myself.**

**Blaine:  
AND I haven't seen that many cowboy hats, actually. We're not in Texas.**

**Kurt:  
Thank heaven for small mercies.**

**Blaine:  
You don't believe in heaven.**

**Kurt:  
Touché.**

**Blaine:  
What is it with you and Texas?**

**Kurt:  
If Louise didn't want Thelma to take a shortcut through Texas, she must have had a good reason.**

**From Kurt:  
Also, George W.**

**Blaine:  
And that's a good reason to avoid an entire state? Austin is pretty fantastic. **

**Kurt:  
If you say so.**

**Blaine:  
Gotta run. See you later?**

**Kurt:  
Yes. Thank you for thinking of me.**

Kurt holds on to his phone, wondering if Blaine will respond. He feels a bit silly waiting, like he's sixteen again.

"Are you done?" Antonio says, a playful smirk at his lips.

"Stop. It's nothing."

"Oh, it's something, all right," Antonio says.

 

***

 

Blaine loves Santa Fe. He loves the way the light descending on the Sangre de Cristo Mountains reminds him of "America the Beautiful." _Oh purple mountains majesty..._ He loves the chile, and the tortilla soup, and the _sopapillas,_ drizzled with honey. He loves the miles of art galleries. And the people. 

He adores the people. 

Half the town is focused on personal transformation, tearing themselves down and putting themselves back together again through Bikram yoga, aura cleansing, sage burning, astrological readings, meditation, rebirthing, labyrinth walking, Chinese medicine and channeling. The rest of the town is steeped in history, married to the desert and the big sky above it, passing down ancient traditions and paying no mind to the hustle of modern society. And all of these people, every single one of them, are damn entertaining to watch.

The Pink Adobe is Blaine's favorite bar in town. The Pink, a local's hangout on the Santa Fe Trail, is an institution long on every traveler's "must do" list. The drinks are always doubles and the rooms are dark and comforting. Adele's crew has been in Santa Fe for a few weeks now, and hosted several impromptu private performances for local friends here in the back room. Adele loves the bar because no one really seems terribly impressed that she's there; she can just do her thing, play with new music and blow off some steam.

Blaine is actively loving Santa Fe, nursing a vodka tonic and listening to Adele sing "So New," the song they recorded this morning, when he notices Kurt. He's standing across the room, next to a tall man in cowboy boots who looks Hispanic and a strikingly beautiful, short blonde woman who does not. Kurt hasn't spotted him yet, so Blaine takes a moment to admire his slender frame, the way his jeans hug his perfect, perfect ass, the way his elegant fingers clutch the tall man's arm when he laughs.

_Why didn't I see him come in? Why does he have to look so fucking amazing?_

_Wait. Who is this guy he's touching?_

Blaine walks over to the trio, a bright smile plastered on his face. "You came," he says, locking eyes with Kurt.

"Of course I did. I mean, really. It's Adele," Kurt says. "Have you met Antonio and Sarah?"

"Not yet, no. Blaine Anderson," he offers, extending his hand to Antonio.

"Nice to put a face to the name," Antonio replies, shaking Blaine's hand. 

As Blaine leans in to kiss Sarah's cheeks, Kurt says, "They're guests of Mitch. He's on the board at Alex Marin House, and Sarah is the executive director."

"Really? That's awesome. I've been meaning to ask someone–you, I guess–if I could come over and meet some of the kids, maybe bring my guitar and play a little," Blaine says.

"That would be amazing, Blaine. The kids would love it," Sarah says, beaming.

"Adele is really excited about the benefit," Blaine adds. He's trying not to stare at Kurt and Antonio, trying not to size them up, trying not to let his irritation show. _Are they involved? Did they just meet? Does Kurt fool around on Paul?_

_"She's_ excited? We're beside ourselves!" Sarah says. 

"So, how do you know each other?" Blaine asks in his best casual voice.

"Antonio carts me around New Mexico. He's my personal slave," Kurt replies, bumping shoulders with the taller man.

"Keep dreaming," Antonio says.

Blaine brings back the smile and just stares. He sees genuine affection between them, and he doesn't like it, not one bit. This guy is so tall it's embarrassing. He's a darker version of Finn. Broad shoulders. Goofy grin. Handsome.

"We both work for the Alexanders," Antonio explains. "I manage Clint's Southwest properties."

"And I manage his wife," Kurt says, giving Antonio a wink.

"Oh," Blaine says. _Exactly when did these two started fucking?_

An uncomfortable silence settles in between them before Antonio steps into Sarah's space, places an arm over her shoulder and says, "And this is _my_ wife."

"Oh. Oh!" Blaine says, letting out a sigh of relief before he thinks better of it.

"Blaine, you _didn't,"_ Kurt says, looking horrified.

"Didn't what?"

"You didn't honestly think that I would—"

"Do you want drinks? Let me get you drinks," Blaine interrupts.

"Ah, sure. I'll just have a beer," Antonio says.

"Margarita, rocks, no salt," Sarah says.

"Kurt?"

Kurt scowls at Blaine, ignores his question and walks over to the bar. Blaine throws an apologetic smile at Antonio and Sarah and then trails after Kurt.

"God, Blaine. You're such an idiot sometimes."

"I know, I know. Sorry."

"I'm _engaged,"_ Kurt says.

"I know. Believe me, I know."

"What's that supposed to mean?" 

"Nothing, just... nothing."

"What can I get for ya?" a forty-something redhead asks from behind the bar. Kurt stares at her beehive hairdo, and smiles.

"How do your margaritas stand up to Maria's?" Kurt asks.

"Ours are stronger, which means they're better," she replies.

"One margarita please, no salt," he says. "I love your hair."

"Thanks. Most people think it's too much."

"Oh it is, but that's why I love it," Kurt says. "I'm Kurt, by the way. Kurt Hummel."

"June Merryfeather."

"Stop! That is not your name," Kurt says, delighted.

"I might have made it up, but it is my name," she says, turning to Blaine. "And you? What are you having?"

Blaine orders drinks for Antonio and Sarah, then perches on a stool to watch Kurt and the bartender interact while she makes the drinks. Kurt loves people who are "too much"; it's a pleasure to watch him connect with another member of the "fabulous" species. He's not friendly, like Blaine is; he doesn't feel comfortable talking to anyone and everyone. But whenever he runs across someone who, like him, exemplifies the extraordinary, he's quick to make friends.

"So you just stayed here? But what about your apartment? What about your _clothes?"_ Kurt asks, and Blaine realizes he's missed a key part of the conversation.

"Kurt, what fun is reinvention if you have to lug your old life around like a ball and chain?"

"So you've basically been on a seven-year vacation," Kurt says, sipping his drink.

"No. This is my home. I don't plan on going back to Seattle. I knew it the moment I pulled into town," June asserts, popping the cap off of Antonio's beer.

"I don't get it," he says. "I mean, no offense, but New Mexico really isn't my cup of tea."

"Maybe not, but you can't escape it," June says. She looks at Kurt intently and Blaine quashes the urge to step away and let them have a private moment in favor of hearing the conversation play out.

"Escape what, exactly?" Kurt asks. 

"You know."

"I… what? I know what?" He looks nervous, like he's afraid she's about to give him really, really bad news.

"You _know."_

"I really don't. What can't I escape?"

"Who you really are. This place reminds you, one way or another," June says, patting his arm. She takes two steps back, gives them both a big, toothy smile and then walks over to serve a customer at the other end of the bar.

Kurt is silent, staring after her.

"You okay?" Blaine asks.

"Hmm? Of course. Yes. She's something, right?" Kurt says.

"For sure," Blaine agrees. "I love it here."

"You love it everywhere," Kurt says.

"True. Hey, let's get these drinks back to your friends," Blaine says.

"But we didn't pay," Kurt says.

"Mitch is picking up the tab tonight," Blaine explains, slipping a twenty onto the bar. "Her tip."

"Always the gentleman," Kurt says.

"You can take the boy out of Dalton, but you can't take Dalton out of the boy," Blaine says, walking back to Antonio and Sarah.

"Typical. Pure cheese."

"Can't help it."

Half an hour later they're sitting around a large rectangular table, all four of them focused on Adele. She's silly tonight; she's singing loads of covers, playing with new music, avoiding her standards; she'll have to sing enough of them on Saturday for the benefit. After she finishes a bouncy version of ["Would I Lie to You?"](http://youtu.be/omJeStRoo_E) by the Eurythmics, Adele thanks the room and walks off the stage, making a beeline for Blaine. Kurt, at his right, sits up a bit taller when he sees her. 

Antonio stands and pulls out a chair for her. "Thanks, darling!" 

She elbows Blaine and then takes a sip of Blaine's drink; he can tell she's looking for an extra bit of fun. _Please don't say anything--_

"Adele, thank you so much for inviting us," Sarah says. "I was captivated by you."

"Captivated? Haven't heard that one yet," Adele says. She takes Sarah's hands in her own and smiles. "Sarah, right? I'm so happy you came. Mitch adores you, and I'm right behind the work you do, you know?"

"Thanks. That means so much. You remember my husband, Antonio?" Sarah says.

"The tall, handsome local boy, yes."

"Nice to see you again," Antonio says, blushing.

Adele looks straight at Kurt. "And _you,_ dearest, you have to tell me everything about this one," Adele says, pointing at Blaine. "He claims to be a total bore, but I have my theories."

"Kurt Hummel," he says, offering his hand. "And I'm happy to dish all night about Blaine if it means I can sit next to you."

"A stunner and a charmer," Adele says, winking at Blaine. "Mess, mess, mess."

"Sorry?" Kurt says.

"It's nothing. Just a bit of an inside joke. That was rude of me. Sorry," she says. "So Kurt, we can't get Blaine to record one of his own songs. Any idea why?"

"Wow. You cut right to it, don't you?" Blaine says, clearly irritated.

"Record a song? Blaine, I thought you weren't singing. Or writing," Kurt says.

"Oh, do you sing too, Blaine?" Sarah asks.

"I used to."

"That's how we met, actually. We were in competing Glee clubs in high school," Kurt explains. "Until I transferred to his school, and joined the Warblers."

"Warblers? Like birds?" Antonio asks.

"An all-boys a cappella group, the rock stars of Dalton Academy," Kurt quips.

"No. Not seriously? Our Blaine?" Adele is half off her seat now, excited to get any tidbit about Blaine's past. "Tell me more. Tell me everything."

Blaine groans and sinks into his chair as Kurt answers Adele's questions, coloring in his past in broad, practiced strokes. His drink almost gone, Kurt's a bit tipsy, and so he's in full-on storyteller mode. He has the whole table laughing, begging for more, and soon Gretchen and a few of the others are hovering around them, too.

When Kurt starts telling them about Hell Weekend, the Warbler party to end all Warbler parties, Blaine grabs Kurt's glass and his own and goes to the bar before he has to hear him tell everyone about his nearly-naked rendition of "Pour Some Sugar On Me." Lovely.

"Hey June. Two more, please," Blaine says, turning to watch his dearest friend holding court. Kurt leans in, says something in a low voice—and the whole table erupts in laughter. They all look over at Blaine, some smirking, some with hands over their mouths, some giving him the thumbs-up. Blaine waves and smiles.

"Here ya be," June says, sliding the drinks across the bar. He knows he should bring Kurt his drink, should rejoin his friends; but his feet feel like they're encased in cement, so he stays.

"Thanks, June," he says. "I'm Blaine, by the way."

"You're his, huh?" she asks, her head nodding in Kurt's direction.

"Who? Kurt? No. He's... I'm not his."

"Are you sure about that?"

"One hundred percent," he says, chugging his drink.

"No. I'm right. There's something there," June presses.

"Are you one of those self-described clairvoyants? Because there's a lot of them running around this town," Blaine says, trying not to sound mean.

"Aren't there, though? No, I'm not one of 'em. I just, you know, size people up. It's kind of a hobby."

"Try knitting," Blaine barks. He's being mean now, on purpose, and he's not mean. Ever. "Sorry, sorry. That was uncalled for. I'm just a little tense. But that's no excuse. So again, I apologize—"

"One apology is enough, Blaine. And it's no problem. I get it. You don't want to want him, but you really, really do want him. I would be tense, too."

_Who is this woman? Jesus! Doesn't she know that we don't talk about this? Doesn't she get that I will never talk about it, and he will never talk about it, and we will never, ever, ever do anything about it?_ Because that's the deal. That's the agreement, forged years ago in heavy silences, in the space between. They can't go back. He can never go back in time, fuck his fears and sense of propriety and go after what he wants.

Blaine turns to look back at the group. Kurt and Adele are deep in their own private conversation now; Blaine wonders what she's telling Kurt, what he's telling her. The last drink creeps up on Blaine as if it's his seventh or eighth. He feels it wrap around his brain and fill him up with fuzzy bravado. He wants to tell June that she's wrong. He and Kurt are friends, friends who don't see each other, friends who don't act much like friends anymore.

He tells her the whole truth instead.

"I do want him. I've always wanted him," Blaine says. "But we're about a decade past that now, and we chose different lives. I love someone else. Someone good. So that's it."

June looks across the room at Kurt and says, "Maybe." 

She pats him on the shoulder and does that walking-backwards-smile thing again before she turns and exits through a door marked "PINK STAFF ONLY." He shakes his head and tries to shrug off his exchange with June, and thinks instead about how Kurt would get a kick out of that sign, how he'd likely want to hang it on his office door or something.

When he turns back to the table again, Adele is gone, and so are many of his nosy friends. He turns toward the stage and sees they're getting ready for another set, so he picks up Kurt's drink and what's left of his own and walks back to the table.

"I didn't tell them anything truly horrifying," Kurt says with a smirk.

"Of course you didn't, because that would involve telling stories about you, too," Blaine teases.

"Just what exactly are you getting at, Blaine Anderson?" Kurt says, teasing right back.

"I know things. I know lots of things," Blaine says. He looks right at Kurt, smile fading. His eyes wander to Kurt's neck and linger there, old fantasies kicking in. He's staring just a bit too long, and he knows it. But he can't help it. 

Kurt shifts a bit in his seat, and then forces himself to look away. "You're not playing tonight?" he asks.

"Nope. Wanted to spend time with you."

Adele starts in on "Forever Man," the new torch song they haven't quite perfected yet. Antonio takes that as his cue and silently offers his hand to his wife. Sarah beams up at him, and they make their way to the dance floor, now dotted with couples moving to the soulful rasp of Adele's voice.

Blaine is too drunk to smooth over the tension with his trademark moves, so it hangs in the air as they watch the scene before them. It feels like it takes Kurt hours to finally ask, "Did you have a bad day? You seem so... surly."

"No, I'm fine," Blaine replies.

"But you're upset about something," Kurt presses.

"I'm not."

"Do you miss Liam? Is that it?" Kurt asks.

"Of course I miss him. He's my boyfriend."

"You haven't said much about him. I just wondered--"

"I didn't think it was appropriate," Blaine interrupts.

"To talk to me about Liam? Why not? I'm your friend--"

"It's private," Blaine insists, staring at the dance floor, the wall, his glass, anything but Kurt.

"Okay," Kurt says. "Just... could you just tell me if you're all right? Is he treating you well?"

"Of course."

"Good. That's good," Kurt says. "So if it's not Liam, why are you so edgy tonight?"

Blaine looks up at Kurt, exhales, lets the ache wander around to his chest, fill up his lungs, take hold of his teeth, his jaw, his tongue. 

"I might... I might not be able to keep this up," Blaine says.

"Keep what up?"

Blaine stares at him, emotions bare and real and maybe too much. He can't hear it over the music, but he can see Kurt gasp. He's at the precipice, and he's losing his will to stay put. 

"Blaine, what--?"

**[PRESS PLAY](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QPh0AIMwwX0) **

Blaine hears the opening bars of "Someone Like You" and before he can change his mind, he takes Kurt's hand and pulls him up out of his chair. "Remember this? You used to play this in your car nonstop."

"You have me confused with Rachel."

"Don't rewrite history," Blaine says, giving Kurt his first real smile of the night.

Kurt smiles back, squeezing Blaine's hand. "I wouldn't dream of it."

They exchange a look that lasts a few seconds too long, but before Kurt can pull away, Blaine tugs on his hand. "Dance with me?"

"Seriously? This song is so sad--"

"This is one of those moments you'll regret saying no to," Blaine interrupts. "Can't we…? Let's just dance to this song we loved when we were kids, okay?"

Kurt nods. "Okay."

Blaine takes him by the hand, winding between tables, leading him to the dance floor. He looks up at Adele sitting on her stool. She looks right at them; she doesn't smile, doesn't break concentration, but he knows she's singing for him—for them.

Blaine stops at the darkest spot on the dance floor and turns to face Kurt. He lets go of his hand, then, and places both of his hands on Kurt's slim waist, pulling him close. Kurt looks at him, a question in his eyes, then exhales and leans into Blaine, resting his head on Blaine's shoulder. They're barely dancing, just swaying and leaning and pressing into each other like two teenagers learning how to do... everything.

Kurt snakes his hands around Blaine's waist and up over his shoulder blades, pressing in. It feels like no hug Kurt's ever given him before. He shivers and burrows his head into Blaine's neck, like he had the night before. Within moments their nerves give way to that unspoken thing, and they let it take over. They'll leave it here on the dance floor anyway, never speak of it again, but for the few measures of this song, for this brief moment in time, they'll give in. 

Blaine tightens his hold on Kurt's waist. They're so close now it's hard to tell where one ends and the other begins.

Kurt brings one of his hands around to the front, placing it on Blaine's chest. He slowly moves it higher, higher, pressing softly into Blaine's shirt. He stops at the collar, fingers close but not touching Blaine's skin. 

Blaine knows what Kurt wants. He can feel the yearning buzzing around them, through them, in them. His hand is over Kurt's now, moving it, placing Kurt's fingers on his own neck. He can feel him smile into his neck as he thumbs Blaine's collar bone.

They're lost in it now, so Blaine allows his hands to move down low on Kurt's back, resting just above the curve of his ass. He can feel the strength in Kurt's thighs, his back, his hands.

He wills the song to go on forever.

Blaine tilts his head, his mouth close to Kurt's ear, and sings softly. _"You know how the time flies. Only yesterday was the time of our lives."_

Kurt melts into him, listening with his whole body. He wraps his hand around the back of Blaine's neck and somehow manages to pull him even closer. Blaine moves his hands back to Kurt's hips, digging in this time. He wants to leave marks, marks he'll never see because this is all they'll ever have; marks Kurt _will_ see in the mirror tonight, tomorrow morning, the next day.

_"I hate to turn up out of the blue uninvited, but I couldn't stay away, I couldn't fight it. I had hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded that for me, it isn't over,"_ Blaine sings, his voice catching on the last note.

Kurt lifts his head and suddenly they're staring into each other's eyes. Adele's voice washes over them and wraps them up in the moment, protecting them from consequences and regret. Kurt licks his lips and Blaine parts his own in response, moving in closer. They're breathing heavily now, barely moving, faces just inches apart.

"Courage, Blaine," Kurt whispers. 

Suddenly Kurt's mouth is on his and they're _kissing._ Oh God. This is everything. Blaine's whole body gives over to the kiss: lips warm, tongue skating across teeth, hands wrapped up in the hair at the base of Kurt's neck.

Kurt wraps both of his hands around Blaine's neck, winds his fingers up into his curls and tugs. Blaine hisses, loving the pain; Kurt does it again. And again. His lips are strong and insistent and Blaine knew it, he knew Kurt would kiss him just exactly like this. Blaine nips at Kurt's bottom lip and then Kurt's hands are on his hips and his mouth is at his neck and Blaine can't help but moan into Kurt's ear.

The song is like a spell, and Blaine feels it coming to an end, so he pulls Kurt off of his neck. Kurt looks confused, almost hurt, but then Blaine takes Kurt's face in his hands and gives him a soft, chaste kiss, the kind he should have given him that day on the stairs after they confronted Karofsky.

He wants to give him all of the missed kisses now, the sweet, innocent, hopeful kisses he should have given him in the hallways at Dalton, in empty classrooms, under stairs. Blaine kisses Kurt's forehead, his cheeks. He nuzzles his nose and then runs his tongue over Kurt's bottom lip like he should have done that day in Kurt's bedroom when Kurt told him he was accepted to Pratt and promised to visit him every month in Boston. He kisses him deeply now, a bit desperately, like he should have done in the backseat of Kurt's car every damn Saturday night for years.

He knows he should kiss Kurt like this is another missed kiss, like this is goodbye, but instead he gives him everything, as he should have done all along; as he should have done every time this perfect man graced him with his presence. 

"Blaine... Blaine--"

Kurt whispers into his mouth, and then Blaine realizes he's crying, salty tears falling down his cheeks and into their mouths. Kurt kisses Blaine's tears, returns to his lips, desperate.

Kurt pulls his mouth away and replaces it with his thumb, rubbing along Blaine's top lip, then the bottom. He can tell Kurt wants to say something, maybe even the truth, but holds it in. He feels the room now, all eyes on them as Adele winds the song down, and he knows he'll never get another chance to just tell him what he should have told him all along. Even though they can never be, even though it might ruin their friendship, Kurt deserves the truth.

"Kurt... I've always wanted... you."

Kurt's tears flow freely now, too. He kisses Blaine one last time and then turns and walks away. 

Blaine watches Kurt slip into the men's room and he stands there, alone on the dance floor, frozen until the piano offers up the last notes of the song. And then he's moving fast through the crowd to the men's room, pushing open the door.

He finds Kurt leaning up against the wall, sobbing. He doesn't think. He doesn't ask. He can't. He crosses to Kurt and wraps him up in his arms, pulls him in for another kiss. Kurt gives in with him and they claw at each other, lining up their hips, gasping as they feel each other for the first time, hard and hot and wonderful.

Blaine nips at Kurt's jaw, holding Kurt's hips steady as he thrusts up. Kurt tugs at the waistband of Blaine's jeans and Blaine is gone. He'll do anything Kurt asks. Anything. Kurt slips his fingers under Blaine's shirt, pressing his fingers into his stomach muscles, skating down, down, down and then... nothing. Kurt freezes.

"I can't. We can't do this," Kurt says, chest heaving.

Blaine groans into Kurt's neck, trying to keep still. They stay like that for what feels like forever and then Kurt gently pushes Blaine off of him.

"I have to go now or I'll never leave," Kurt says, turning the handle on the door. He doesn't look at Blaine before he goes. There are no final stolen kisses, no tender caresses of his cheek. He's just gone.

Blaine waits a few minutes, enough time for Kurt to say his goodbyes and get out the door, and goes back into the room. Adele is singing again, but when she spots him she looks worried. He smiles at her reassuringly. She'll feel badly about this tomorrow, as if she caused it with her pushing and her singing of words that ring true over miles and decades apart. But he'll always be grateful.

He wants to run after Kurt. He wants to lift him up and take him down and lose himself in Kurt, Kurt, Kurt.

But Kurt said no, and Blaine is a gentleman.

Fuck manners.

****

It's too much. Too _much._ The walk back to the Eldorado did nothing to calm him, and Kurt will do anything to stop the deafening roar of want in his brain. He rummages through his toiletry bag, finds the travel-sized bottle of lube, and within seconds he's on the bed, jeans and briefs in a pile next to him on the floor. He's so desperate to get off he doesn't even bother to take off his shirt. 

_I've always wanted... you._

Blaine's confession echoes so loudly he can feel the words in his body, coursing through his veins, whispering in his ear, pulsing in his heart. He was moments—mere seconds—away from wrecking everything, and he knows there's a good chance he wouldn't even care if he had. 

_We were caught up in the song, that's all. It was a long time coming and now it's over. I'll just stay far away from Blaine, finish this damn house and get on with my life._

His hands feel punishing on his cock, too rough and too fast, but he deserves it. He deserves pain with pleasure, his boyfriend—fiancé—far away, ever-faithful, fighting for their rights, for their marriage. He just needs to get off as quickly as possible and be done with it. No dragging it out. No fantasizing about Blaine's hot mouth on his skin, Blaine's hands intertwined with his as he fucks Kurt—

"Oh God—"

Kurt scoots his ass down for easier access, lubes up two fingers and then works one, then the other inside, welcoming the burn. He tries to imagine Paul's long, elegant, practiced fingers working him open, but his mind keeps going back to Blaine. Blaine. Blaine.

_Blaine._

"It's just a... a... _fuck..._ a fantasy. It doesn't count. It doesn't count."

Kurt gives in, bucking up as he imagines Blaine's callused fingers pressing, pressing, pressing in to him. He fucks down on his own fingers, adding a third, and groans loudly, thankful for the hotel's soundproof walls. He's used this fantasy to get off before, many times. But he's never gone right to it just minutes after _seeing_ Blaine. And he's never done it just minutes after Blaine confessed he wanted him. Because Blaine had always made him wonder, left that "thing" hanging between them like he wanted the banter and the tension to go on forever.

_I've always wanted... you._

_Do you need something?_

Sweat at his temples, Kurt whines in frustration. It's too much and it's not enough. It's the honesty without the follow-through; agony. His orgasm builds and he's so close, so close, but he just can't get there. He _needs_ to come. He'll do _anything_ to come. But he can't. He works himself over like it's the last time, little beads of sweat dripping down the side of his face. He's tries every surefire move, but it's not enough. 

Kurt pulls his fingers out in defeat and slides to the floor. He holds his head in his hands and, for the second time tonight, he cries. Ass throbbing, cock softening, fingers cramping, he pulls his knees up to his chest and sobs. He's never cried from sexual frustration before.

"It's so much more--" Kurt mumbles, in between sobs. He can still feel Blaine's hands on his biceps, gripping him, his eyes black with longing. _Longing._

Kurt knows it's about more than sex. It's everything. No one, _no one_ had ever kissed him like that. He felt it in his bones. Blaine's kisses were reverent, passionate, demanding, sweet.

It can't be about more than sex, though, or he'll run after him. He'll do something foolish like call things off with Paul and fly to London and tell Blaine he'll wait for him, wait for him to be done with Liam and come to his senses. 

_I gave up on waiting for Blaine years ago._

It can never be about more than sex. He can say no to sex. He can't say no to... all the rest.

He can fantasize about Blaine. He can jerk off to thoughts of Blaine touching him, sucking him, fucking him. But he can't let it be more. He can never let it be more.

His sobs calm to an occasional sniffle. Kurt wipes his eyes, stands up and takes off his shirt, lets it drop to the floor; he doesn't care about anything right now. He takes one look in the mirror, shakes his head at his puffy, still-desperate eyes and walks to the shower, where he'll wash away the want, cry some more, and let every dirty thought, every desire and every last wish wash down the drain.

As he passes the door he hears a soft knock, so soft it sounds like it might be someone knocking on a different door. Curious, he looks out the peephole and... there he is. _Blaine._ Although his image is distorted by the tiny round lens, Kurt can clearly see him standing with his back to Kurt's door, his hand running roughly through his curls. 

As if he can feel Kurt's eyes on him, Blaine turns and knocks again, louder this time. Kurt holds his breath. He can't answer. He shouldn't answer. He won't.

"Kurt. Open the door."

Kurt exhales and steps back as if he's been burned. He will _not_ open the door...

"Kurt. _Please."_

The urgency in Blaine's voice is palpable; Kurt recognizes it as his own. Suddenly he's not thinking anymore. Suddenly he's moving toward the door, hand unlocking the chain. Suddenly his fingers are on the handle—

"Shit!"

Kurt realizes he's about to answer the door completely naked and runs back to his pile of clothes. Just as he slips on his jeans, Blaine bangs on the door loudly; so Kurt forgoes his shirt, runs back to the door and yanks it open.

"Stop! You'll wake up the other—"

Before Kurt can finish admonishing him, Blaine's mouth is on his. He backs Kurt into the room, kicking the door shut behind them. In no time he has Kurt pushed up against a wall, his hands digging into Kurt's hips, holding him in place. Blaine devours Kurt with his mouth, kissing him so hard it hurts, nipping at his bottom lip, his chin, his throat. It's fast and desperate and Kurt can't catch up, can't do much of anything but hold on.

"Blaine—"

"Please, Kurt. Don't say no. I _need you,"_ Blaine pleads.

Somehow, Kurt finds it in him to reach a hand in between them. He pushes on Blaine's chest, willing him to stop but hoping he won't. Blaine tenses and pulls back to look at Kurt. He's letting Kurt see all of it now; he's begging with his eyes, his hips, his hands. 

Kurt bites his lip and watches Blaine's eyes as he stares at his mouth. His body is humming with anticipation; it's as if his cock _knows_ Blaine will get him off in the most spectacular way. It was never like this with Paul, with anybody. But they can't. They shouldn't. They will regret this forever.

Bodies pressed together, chests heaving, their eyes lock and Kurt makes a decision.

"One night," he says, his hand still between them.

Blaine grabs both of Kurt's hands, places them over his head, against the wall, and holds them there. "I want so much... everything... Kurt, I can't--"

"I know."

"One night," Blaine agrees. "I have to... please can we just... I _have_ to fuck you. _Now."_

And that is _it._ Kurt is gone. He wriggles his hands free from Blaine's grasp and reaches around the bathroom doorframe to find his toiletry bag on the counter. Blaine attacks his neck and yet somehow Kurt manages to find a condom in the bag.

"Here," Kurt says, holding the condom up triumphantly.

"But you're not ready," Blaine says.

"I um... I am, actually. I was trying to get off before you got here, and I'm... I'm good to go," Kurt says, blushing.

There is a moment, just a second or two, when they could back out. But then it's gone, and Blaine's pulling his shirt over his head and Kurt's peeling off his jeans, both in a kind of frenzy. Kurt yanks on Blaine's zipper and pulls down his jeans and underwear in one pass. They are barely completely off before Blaine is back on Kurt's mouth, hands everywhere.

"You deserve--" Blaine starts, but Kurt cuts him off.

"Just do it. We'll go again. We'll go until morning. Please just do it."

Kurt tears at the condom and rolls it onto Blaine's erect cock in seconds flat. Blaine groans and kisses Kurt's bruised lips, hoisting him up a bit and supporting him with his weight. Kurt wraps his legs around Blaine's waist, saying, "Hurry, hurry, please, please," like he might die if Blaine doesn't fuck him _right now._

"Is there enough lube?" Blaine asks.

"Yes, yes. I'm fine. Just do it. _Please."_

Blaine spits on his own hand, rubs the wetness on Kurt's hole and then Blaine is pushing in, and Kurt is pressing down and willing himself to relax and it's not enough lube after all but it's good, it's so good, and then Blaine is all the way in and Kurt is filled with an overwhelming sense of... joy.

Blaine stills for a moment and then says, "This is happening."

"This is _so_ happening."

And then Blaine is fucking him, and it feels like a miracle, like everything he's ever wanted. He fucks him hard and fast and it's perfect and he's completely at Blaine's mercy. Kurt cries out, his head banging against the wall, but he doesn't care. Blaine is relentless, pounding years of frustration into him, again and again.

"Don't stop, don't stop, don't ever stop," Kurt screams. 

"Kurt, _fuck,"_ Blaine says between grunts. Kurt digs blunt nails into Blaine's back and mouths at his ear. Blaine holds him up; Kurt takes his own leaking cock in hand and starts pumping, the sight of which tips Blaine over the edge. His thrusts uneven, Blaine looks pained, like he's trying to hold back.

"Don't wait. I want to see," Kurt says, and with that Blaine is coming, his head burrowed in Kurt's neck. 

"Jesus," Blaine mouths at Kurt's chest, lost in the taste of Kurt's sweat.

"Can you just... don't pull out. Just a little more," Kurt says. Blaine shakes off the haze and he's fucking him again. "Yeah, that's it. That's it. Shit!" 

When Kurt's long-awaited orgasm finally hits it is so intense he makes no sound. His neck snaps back and he's surprised to find Blaine's hand there, preventing him from banging his head against the wall again. He feels like he's falling but he doesn't care; he knows Blaine will hold him up. The release is like fire and so, so sweet as he comes down, his head falling against Blaine's shoulder.

Blaine's breathing evens out first. He shifts his weight, holding Kurt in place.

"Holy shit, Kurt."

"Mm hmm," Kurt mumbles.

"I'm sorry, I know that was... fast. I wanted to touch you and taste you and build up to—" 

"What, you're worried we didn't have enough foreplay?" Kurt asks, coming back to himself. He kisses Blaine's neck, his jaw, his swollen lips.

"Yes." Blaine rests his forehead on Kurt's shoulder. 

"Blaine, what do you think we've been doing for the past fourteen years?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for fic overall: Infidelity, profanity, graphic sex, angst.
> 
> This chapter is NC-17.

Chapter 4A

It takes them two hours to make it to the bed.

After the first fuck they slide to the floor, Kurt in Blaine's lap, kissing slow and sweet, like they're just starting. Kurt holds Blaine's face in his hands and worships his mouth. He leaves little kisses at the corners, slips his tongue inside, and then presses his lips firmly to Blaine’s mouth in a kiss so deep he thinks he might pass out.

They're full on _making out_ now--next to the used condom they had dropped carelessly on the carpet; this is the most impulsive and dirty Kurt has ever been with anyone. He can't even remember the last time he actually made out with someone, kissed someone until his lips hurt, until the air was sucked out of his lungs. It had always been kissing as a means to an end, not just to kiss. This, he thinks, _this_ is kissing for the sake of it, for the love of it, for the pure joy of it.

When Blaine can't take it anymore, he takes Kurt's hands and places them on his own back, engulfing him in a hug, a silent reminder that above all, they are friends. Kurt relaxes in Blaine's tight embrace, his chin on Blaine's shoulder. He still can't believe Blaine held him up on the wall so long. He knew Blaine was strong, but that was... insanely hot.

"Thanks," Blaine says.

Kurt pulls out of the hug, eyes wide. "Did I say that out loud?"

"Yup."

"Oh, God," Kurt says, covering his face with his hands. Blaine runs his fingers up and down Kurt's sides, and Kurt drops his hands. "Oh, whatever. It _was_ hot."

"Insanely so, yes." Blaine says with a smirk.

Blaine kisses Kurt's right shoulder, all open mouth and hot breath, and thrusts his hips up a bit. It's just a nudge really, a tentative question. Kurt rests his hands on Blaine's shoulders and answers with his hips, moving his in small, lazy circles. Soon they're breathing heavily, rutting against each other, getting hard again despite the alcohol and the fantastic fuck. 

Kurt braces himself on Blaine's shoulders and leans back against the wall, his hips burrowing down into Blaine's lap and thrusting up. The angle is odd, but he doesn't want to move from Blaine's lap, so he reaches one hand down, and takes both of their cocks in it and lines them up perfectly. He is momentarily struck dumb by the sight--how often he had fantasized about this!--and then shakes off the thought, willing himself to stay present, to not miss one second of this night, this surrender.

"Did you... fuck... did you mean it when you said we could go all night?" Blaine asks, synching up with Kurt's movements.

"The damage is done. We should... shit! Just a little faster. Yes!"

Kurt can't believe they're at it again so quickly, after the best wall sex he's had in his entire life. The need to come is so strong, it's almost as if they never got off, as if they're still building to something, still desperate.

"We should what?" Blaine asks He adjusts Kurt's hips just a few inches and then holds them down.

"We should just... _fuck_ Blaine!"

"Yeah. Keep moving. Just like that."

Kurt's breath is coming fast now, but somehow he manages to get it out. "We should just get it out of our systems. Even if takes... oh... yes... _yes..._ even if it takes... all night."

They’re rocking in a decent rhythm but they keep slipping; soon they're both whining in frustration. 

"Kurt... can you--?"

Kurt presses firmly on Blaine's shoulders and pushes him onto his back, covering him. He spreads Blaine's legs a few inches and lines up their bodies, his hips a bit lower than Blaine's. He thrusts up hard, dragging his cock up and back again. He's digging in and dragging up and digging in and dragging up and the friction is so good it's almost painful.

"Faster, Kurt. Faster," Blaine pleads, his arms wrapped around Kurt's back, pressing down hard, holding them together. He meets Kurt's thrusts every time and it's perfect slippery magic now, all grunts and groans and the smell of sex and sweat and cologne and _Blaine._ His name is a mantra in Kurt's head as he ruts harder, faster, harder faster. _Blaine. Blaine. Blaine. Blaine._

"Good. So good," Blaine mumbles, eyes rolling back in his head.

Kurt is on the edge now, pressing down, pressing in, harder, more, closer still. He pushes his forehead into Blaine's shoulder and wills himself to keep the rhythm sure and steady so as not to break the delicious build.

_Could I melt into his body, fuse with his skin, his muscles, his bones? Could I line my heart up with his and sink in, take over? Could I have this forever? Could I keep him?_

_No. But I can have this night._

Kurt comes first this time, letting the internal mantra fall from his lips. "Blaine, Blaine, _Blaine, Blaine."_ He wants to collapse but he keeps moving, deeper, harder, faster, pressing Blaine into the carpet.

Blaine tenses and arches his back up off of the floor, pushing Kurt up with him. "Oh God, oh God," he screams, as he comes all over Kurt's belly. 

Kurt falls onto him, but the mess is too messy. He rolls over onto his side next to Blaine, hip to hip. They both pant, Blaine with one arm thrown over his eyes.

"Holy shit, Kurt."

"You keep saying that."

And then suddenly they're laughing, giddy with the release of their age-old tension.

Kurt's whole body shakes and Blaine seems lost to it, like he can't stop, like they've just shared the funniest inside joke ever told. Kurt laughs until he feels tears at the corners of his eyes.

_When was the last time I was_ this _happy? I can't remember. Maybe singing. Maybe sitting on the little bench in the dressing room, watching Mom try on outfits for "date night." Maybe lying in the grass with Blaine in that field behind Dalton's tennis courts, sharing earbuds and staring up at endless sky. Maybe never._

Blaine grabs his shirt and wipes the come off their chests, stomachs and thighs. He tosses the shirt across the room. They turn to face each other. Blaine's eyes are shining, and Kurt can't stop himself from touching his face. He wants to stay cool, casual, to keep the happy down so as not to betray his feelings, but it's nearly impossible--especially when Blaine gives him a giant smile that reaches all the way up to his eyes. 

Blaine reaches for Kurt's other hand and plays with his fingers. He says, "You're not shy." 

"This surprises you?"

"I always pictured you... I imagined having to draw you out," Blaine explains.

"Yes, well, you weren't wrong. But that was then. We're grown-ups, Blaine."

"I know," Blaine says, threading their fingers together. "I know."

Kurt watches their joined hands for a moment, then says, "I like sex."

Blaine chuckles. "I got that."

"So spill," Kurt says. "The fantasies. I'm demure Kurt, and you're what, my mentor, seducing me? Getting me comfortable with my body? Helping me discover my sexual appetite?" Kurt is full-on teasing now, enjoying the bashful look on Blaine's otherwise composed face.

"Not exactly," Blaine says.

"What, then? Tell me. Because you know far too much about my first boyfriends to ever think I’d be shy in bed."

"I know. But I still… I guess when I... imagine you... I still think of you at sixteen, nervous about sex, afraid to watch porn--"

"Ugh. I still don't like porn," Kurt says.

"Really? Because there's this awesome series you might like--"

"Blaine, _no."_

Blaine smiles and turns to look at the ceiling, moving their clasped hands to rest on his damp, sweaty chest. "Remember the time Wes downloaded that video of the naked muscle guys sitting in a classroom, learning how to give proper blowjobs?"

"Oh, god. He wanted his girlfriend to watch it--"

"Something about 'educational purposes' and 'for the good of all concerned'--"

"Yes! That was some bloody nose she gave him. What was her name again?"

"Um... Sheila?"

"Susan!"

"Right. Susan. Poor Susan. Anyway, I still remember you standing back from the screen. You had your hands over your face, but I could see one eye peeking out from between your fingers."

Kurt gives Blaine a playful slap on the side. "It was weird, okay? I had this massive crush on you--"

"Aww--"

"--And watching... _that..._ with _you_... was just beyond uncomfortable."

"But you looked. You still looked." 

Blaine lets go of Kurt's hand and runs his fingers over Kurt's belly, flat and toned. He traces the outside of Kurt's belly button with his index finger. Circle. Circle. Circle. Circle.

"I couldn't help myself," Kurt says, more in breath than words.

"Did you learn anything?"

"About what?"

"Blowjobs." Circle. Circle. Circle. Circle.

"You know you're embarrassingly obvious, right? And a bit juvenile," Kurt teases. "You're practically middle-aged, Blaine. If you want a blowjob, just ask."

Blaine's fingers move down, tracing the line of fine hair from Kurt's navel down to his well-groomed cock. His touch is feather-light, almost tickling, as he traces the line up and down. Up and down. Up and down.

"I’m thirty. Thirty is hardly middle-aged," Blaine says. "And you'll be thirty in no time, Kurt. Are you saying you think of yourself as middle-aged?"

Kurt finds it difficult to concentrate now, with his entire being focused on Blaine's one finger. Still, he manages a comeback. "Blaine, no matter how many birthdays I have, I will never be middle-aged. You, on the other hand--"

Blaine's finger moves down, down, down, hovering over Kurt's cock. "Yes, Kurt? What about me?"

"Um--"

Blaine runs one finger along the underside of Kurt's cock and back again. Kurt gasps, mesmerized. Despite all of it, Kurt is getting hard again. "I... ah... I don't think my cock knows how old I am."

_"What?"_

"I'm pretty sure my cock thinks I'm seventeen," Kurt says.

Blaine stops the sweet torture, his head collapsing onto Kurt's stomach as he laughs and laughs and laughs. Kurt laughs with him, winding his fingers through Blaine's curls. He can't see Blaine's face, but he can feel his smile on his skin. It's so easy now, this thing between them that used to be fun and sexy but so very, very difficult.

"I mean, it's almost like, at the very sight of you, my cock has some freakish flashback and acts like I don't have anything better to do but spend all night getting off with you," Kurt says, his chest rising and falling with every giggle.

Still laughing, Blaine says, "You really think your dick has a mind of its own?"

"Clearly, it does. Isn't that how we ended up here?"

Blaine lifts his head and looks at Kurt, who stretches up on his elbows to look him in the eyes. "No. It really isn't."

Kurt looks at him for a moment, mouth open. Then he smiles. He touches Blaine's cheek, reaches up to kiss his lips, the tip of his nose, his forehead. "I know. I was only teasing."

Blaine relaxes, rests his head on Kurt's stomach again. "I'm not used to you saying the word 'cock.'"

"I suppose not," Kurt says. "It's not a word I would use with you unless--"

"Unless we were lovers," Blaine finishes.

"Yes. That's right."

They're quiet for a few moments, listening to each other breathe over the low hum of the air conditioner on the other side of the room. 

"Blaine?"

"Hmm?"

"This is amazing... right?" Kurt asks.

"Completely."

"Is it--" Kurt trails off, searching Blaine's eyes for the answer to the question he cannot ask.

Blaine shifts off of Kurt and onto his side and now they're mirroring each other, caressing faces and holding hands. "Tell me," he says.

"Okay. Okay, I will. But first, can we agree that everything we do tonight, and everything we say, will never leave this room?"

"Absolutely."

"Then... then I want to say that I am ridiculously happy," Kurt says. Blaine's eyes light up. There's that smile again. "I think we've needed this for so long, and... just let me get this out, okay?" Blaine nods and squeezes Kurt's hand.

"You were brave, when you said you wanted me," Kurt continues. "I... I should have said it back to you, but... we've both wanted this for so long and it was keeping us from truly being happy. Because this was inevitable... wasn't it?"

"For sure," Blaine says. He holds both of Kurt's hands in his and rubs his thumbs over Kurt's wrists like he's done so many times before, like he did last night, and everything feels so right Kurt doesn't want to say what he know needs to be said.

He says it anyway.

"So it wouldn't have been fair, marrying Paul without first--"

Blaine tenses for a moment and Kurt trails off, nervous; but Blaine recovers quickly. 

"Getting it out of our systems?"

"Right. Yes. So you understand?" Kurt asks.

"Of course. You're saying we had to do this, so we can truly give ourselves to Liam and Paul. I'm not sure they would agree with your theory, but they don't have to know."

Kurt sits up suddenly. "They _can't_ know, Blaine."

Blaine tenses up again. Kurt wants to climb inside of him and live there forever, to ease his worry from the inside out, to stay. He wants more than he'll ever admit; and he won't admit it because Kurt isn't just Kurt Hummel anymore. He's Kurt Hummel and Paul James. He won't admit it because Kurt has a beautiful, magazine-perfect life and what he wants, what he _really_ wants is too much to ask of his friend who loves someone else. He won't admit it because Kurt is a fucking master at managing disappointment. He _rocks_ disappointment. But _this,_ this all-consuming, electric joy, this he does not know how to do.

Blaine looks away and says, "Look, Kurt, we're on the same page here. Let's just... can we just agree that we have this crazy chemistry--"

_"That_ is an understatement, Blaine. It's like saying the atomic bomb was a little intense."

Blaine laughs and turns back to Kurt. He looks a little sad, but it could be guilt or exhaustion; his expression is too small for Kurt to tell for sure. Blaine runs his fingers through Kurt's hair and smiles when Kurt leans into his hand. 

"Okay, so we agree that we can't tell them. And we agree that we have to stop, come morning. And we agree that we can say anything to each other tonight, and it won't be repeated. Yes?"

"Yes," Kurt nods, kissing the palm of Blaine's hand.

"Then let me tell you that as much as I would love to tell you my secrets and bond over our shared... frustration... I only have a few hours left to do everything to you I've always wanted to do. So I need you to shut up now. Okay?"

Kurt tries not to swoon. He nods and says, "Okay, but--"

"But what?"

"We haven't even left the hallway--"

"And?"

"You do know hotel rooms have beds, right?"

Blaine gives Kurt's cock a squeeze. Kurt whines and Blaine laughs, getting to his feet and holding out a hand for Kurt. "Come on, you. Shower first, then bed."

Kurt takes Blaine's hand and follows him into the bathroom. They catch sight of their dual reflection in the mirror: all mussed hair, wide eyes and flushed skin. 

"We look like the spokespeople for sex," Kurt says, leaning into Blaine.

"Huh?"

"Well, I was going to say 'poster children' for sex, but somehow that just sounds wrong," Kurt explains, giggling.

Blaine squeezes Kurt's bicep and goes to start the water. Kurt can't take his eyes off of his own reflection. He looks brighter somehow, in focus, like he just woke up from a very long sleep. Kurt quickly checks his toiletry bag for more condoms, left over from Paul's last visit to Santa Fe. He takes the condoms out and sets them on the counter. He turns to look at Blaine, water cascading down his chest like some wet dream come to life.

_How many times did I imagine this? How many times did I play out this scene in the Dalton showers? It's hard to believe he's here, waiting for me._

_I should feel guilty, but I don't. Maybe I'll feel guilty tomorrow._

"Kurt," Blaine says, and his eyes are asking again.

"Coming."

***

 

During his entire junior year at Dalton, Blaine's number one (secret) mission was to be on the receiving end of a blowjob. He thought about it—wet, pink lips wrapped around him, making him hot, making him beg, making him come—far too much for his own good. It wasn't that he felt ashamed; he was perfectly okay with the deluge of sexual thoughts that ran through his mind daily (usually centered around a nondescript, half-naked, dirty-blonde surfer). He figured that, at any given time, you could peek inside the minds of a roomful of Dalton boys and see at least two dozen sexual images floating around in there; and he was no different. It was entirely age-appropriate.

The problem was this: _because_ his teenaged mind conjured up images of blowjobs approximately every three minutes, and _because_ after Kurt transferred to Dalton that November they did just about everything together, and _because_ Kurt was frighteningly hot, Blaine inevitably dropped hunky surfer guy and started imagining getting a blowjob from Kurt. And that was _so_ not okay.

But he imagined it anyway.

Kurt.

Kurt giving him a blowjob.

Kurt giving him a blowjob anywhere and everywhere and anytime he wanted it. In the library, Kurt hiding under the table while Blaine tried to hold it together. On the couch in the common room after curfew; in his bed, both of them trying (and failing) to keep quiet; in the woods past the chapel during lunch, where they could be quick and dirty and loud; in Kurt's car; in Blaine's car; in the men's room at Breadstix; at the movies; in the shower.

Blaine couldn't possibly count the number of times he got off to thoughts of Kurt blowing him. Even in recent years, he'd pulled that old fantasy out a few (dozen) times. And it was good, like a schoolboy's fantasy always is.

But this...

This is better.

This is amazing.

This is the single best blowjob Blaine Anderson has ever had in his entire fucking life.

Just the sight of Kurt on his knees, eyes closed, his swollen lips dragging down Blaine's cock and up again like a pro, is enough to send Blaine over the edge. It doesn't help much to look away, because his mind just floods with images from his old fantasies, and that—combined with the reality of Kurt's masterful head—is too, too much.

Kurt works him over with _purpose._ He is _not_ messing around.

"Jesus, Kurt. How--?"

He feels Kurt smile around him now, and hum, and dear lord that's good. A slow lick up the vein on the underside of his cock, a few shallow sucks around the head, a twist of the wrist and then back to that dirty, rhythmic suck, suck, suck. Blaine is in awe of Kurt, the way he takes Blaine in deep, his mouth enveloping Blaine's cock, straining his lips. Blaine is stupid now. Dizzy. Lost.

He wants it to last, to feel that swipe of Kurt's tongue right... "There, Kurt. Oh God. Again. Oh God." He wants to hold Kurt's head tight and still and fuck Kurt's mouth, scream his name, watch Kurt jerk himself off as he takes all Blaine can give.

But he knows Kurt wants other things, and he's not sure he can deliver if they keep this up.

"Stop. Kurt. Don't... oh fuck... stop!"

Blaine whines when Kurt pulls off. Kurt strokes him with one hand and says, "Stop or don't stop?"

Blaine struggles; he waits for the oxygen to return to his brain. After a few moments, he tugs on Kurt's hand and motions for him to stand up. Kurt looks confused, but happy. He rests both hands on Blaine's hips while Blaine licks Kurt's bottom lip, dips his tongue into his mouth and lets the kiss shake him out of the need for immediate gratification.

"Who are you?" Blaine says finally.

"Stop it," Kurt replies. He actually has the nerve to look embarrassed, shy even.

"You're like, the Jedi Master of blowjobs," Blaine says, pressing their foreheads together. He wraps his arms around Kurt, taking his splashes. The water is running lukewarm now, unsurprising since they've been in here forever.

"Dork," Kurt says. Then he smiles. "I _do_ like to achieve mastery in all of my endeavors."

"If you want to keep going, I need to stop," Blaine explains.

"Still not making sense, Blaine."

"I don't know if I can come again after this."

"Oh," Kurt says, getting it at last.

Kurt slips out of Blaine's grasp and turns his back to him. He turns off the shower and steps out, reaching a hand out for Blaine. "Come on. I want to fuck you on the bed."

"Yeah. Good."

Blaine wants to apologize for sounding like a caveman, but instead he grasps Kurt with one hand and palms the two remaining condoms with his other hand as they leave the bathroom.

They're on the bed in seconds, soaking wet, dripping water onto the cream-colored duvet. Kurt is on top of Blaine now; he sucks a raspberry-sized mark onto Blaine's shoulder while Blaine moans and slides his fingers down Kurt's back to his ass.

Kurt lifts his head up and says, "Wait, _do_ you want me to fuck you?"

"Yes, God yes."

"I mean, I just assumed... but maybe you don't--"

"It's been years. Liam doesn't like to top," Blaine says. Kurt raises one eyebrow and Blaine sighs. "Don't. Just... please, _please_ fuck me."

Kurt plants both hands on the bed on either side of Blaine's head and swoops in for a kiss so deep, so forceful, it knocks him senseless.

Kurt breaks the kiss to grab the lube, and Blaine imagines Kurt alone in this room just hours before, fingering himself, trying to get off to the memory of Blaine's hands on him. He remembers the feel of Kurt, hot and tight and waiting, squeezing around his cock and holding him inside like he belongs there. And then Kurt's finger is inside him, and another, and then it's "yes, yes, yes" and "more, more, more," and Blaine whispers Kurt's name with every exhale.

Three fingers, and then bliss, pure hot bliss, and then Kurt leaves him empty. He feels Kurt's lips on his belly, the inside of his thighs, sweet and reverent; he hears the sound of a foil wrapper ripping, of slicking-on latex, and then Kurt is hitching one of Blaine's legs up onto his shoulder and pushing his other thigh out, spreading him wide.

Kurt hesitates, and Blaine looks directly into his eyes. He sees it, now: pure adoration. Kurt hasn't looked at him like this since that week they spent at Blaine's grandparents' cabin in Wisconsin, the summer before college, when they spent every day at the lake, pushing buttons and boundaries. Kurt had given up on something after that, or packed it away, or just _stopped._ But here it is, the look, shining down on him like a gift, the _best gift._

Blaine reaches up, palm flat over Kurt's heart. He knows this could be the end of it. This could be the last time he has Kurt like he's always wanted him, and they only just got started. "Hold on as long as you can," Kurt says, reading his mind.

"Don't touch me, then. Just fuck me."

Kurt plants a kiss on Blaine's leg and pushes in carefully. Blaine is grateful, but it's not what he wants. "I'm okay. Really. _Please,"_ Blaine pleads. Kurt nods and then bottoms out in one thrust, earning a guttural moan from Blaine. "Fuck, _yes."_

Kurt lifts Blaine's hips, just barely, enough to get exactly the right angle. Kurt is deliberate, rhythmic; he never misses a beat. He pushes Blaine's thigh out even wider, holding him open. When Blaine lifts his head up a bit _to see,_ —to _see Kurt fucking him,_ Kurt like he imagined him so many times, Kurt claiming him, loving him, filling him—he sees that Kurt is watching, too. Head down, he seems mesmerized by the sight of his own cock pumping in and out of Blaine. Blaine groans, his head falling back on the bed.

His thoughts come quick and messy as he pants and whines. 

_Let me take a picture, let me hold onto this moment and keep it in my pocket, in the corner of my heart, in my dreams. Let me have it. Wasn't this always mine? Ours? Let me have it. Weren't we always this? Haven't we always been here, in this breath, in this pain, in this heat? Let me have it._

Blaine loses himself with Kurt inside him. He is anything and everything and nothing matters but _this, this, this._ He is so gone he doesn't notice the familiar tug until he is seconds from coming; and then all he sees is silver and black. Every cell in his body wakes up, as if he had been dead for years, as if he is awake for the first time. Pleasure rips through him like fire and fills him, white and hot, like liquid washing over his bones.

He is useless, so happily wrecked, and so willing to let Kurt pound into him now as he searches for his own release. 

"Oh... Blaine... _shitshitshit--"_

Kurt's babbling now, sweat at his brow, and Blaine realizes that up until now, Kurt hasn't spoken a word this whole time.

Blaine struggles to keep his eyes open, to focus on Kurt's face as he comes. He is certain there is no one more beautiful than this man, this man who used to be a boy, a boy who captured his attention and his heart.

Kurt collapses on Blaine, his body thrumming. He grips Blaine's hips, all shallow breaths and little whimpers. Blaine reaches up and holds Kurt in a tight hug, and he realizes they've been hugging all night, in between everything, during, after. He kisses Kurt's hair, whispering, "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

When Kurt rolls off to the side, Blaine sees the tears in Kurt's eyes and his own fill up at the sight. "We're not doing this, right? We're just... we're not stopping to do this," Blaine pleads.

Kurt rubs his face, wipes his eyes and says, "No. No, we're not."

They lie next to each other, staring at the ceiling, hands intertwined and resting between them on the bed. Kurt rubs his thumb absentmindedly across Blaine's knuckles. Blaine rests his foot on Kurt's ankle. "God, I want to go all night, but--"

"It's almost morning," Kurt says.

"I'm spent."

"Hmm. Nice. I like that word," Kurt says. "When it's earned."

Blaine turns on his side, leans on his elbow. He looks down at Kurt and beams. "Best. Night. Ever."

Kurt smiles and pulls Blaine in for a kiss. "Even better than what's-his-name?"

"Who?"

"Adam something or other. You know, _the guy,"_ Kurt says, smiling up at Blaine. "In college. You dated him for a week or something. Remember? I came down to visit you and you fucked him on the air mattress in the living room."

"Oh. _That_ guy."

"We all heard you, and when Rachel asked you about it you said it was mind-blowing, the best night ever."

Blaine runs his thumb across Kurt's chin, then up, and lets it slide into Kurt's mouth and out again. "You never visited me again," Blaine says.

"No." Kurt sits up, and then he's gone. 

Blaine glances over to the windows, frowning at the soft pink light peeking through the heavy drapes. He remembers that morning, after his one and only time with Adam, when Kurt smiled too brightly and couldn't really look Blaine in the eyes. He remembers waiting for the bus from Chinatown the following month, holding a tray with two coffees and a chamomile tea, so excited to see his best friend. And he remembers Rachel stepping off the bus alone, shaking her head at the question in his eyes. He felt the tether go slack, then, and his shoulders sank with his heart. But still, he didn't fix it. He was too young, too clueless; he didn't know how.

Kurt returns a moment later, cleans them up and then drops the damp washcloth on the floor. "Come on, under the covers."

"I don't want to sleep," Blaine says.

"I know. But I'm cold," Kurt says, turning down the bed. Blaine stands and somehow they both slide into the bed and into each other’s arms without a question of sides or position. Kurt snuggles in, rests his head on Blaine's shoulder and immediately starts rubbing lazy circles around Blaine's chest, playing with his hair. "I love this," he whispers.

Blaine, one arm around Kurt, kisses the top of his head. They're quiet for a long time, just listening to each other breathe, offering gentle touches, exploring, comforting.

"Feel better?" Blaine asks, and he's asking about all of it, the last fourteen years of not feeling right, and Kurt knows.

"Almost," Kurt replies.

"Yeah. Almost."

After a few moments more, Kurt slips out from under Blaine's arm and crawls out of bed. He crosses to the window and pulls the drapes open, letting in the first blush of morning.

"We're missing the sunrise," Kurt says. He climbs back into bed and turns to face the window, pulling Blaine over to hold him from behind. Blaine throws an arm around Kurt's waist, and Kurt covers it with his own, silently imploring him to hold him even tighter.

The sunrise, bright orange and soft pink waking up over the mountains, is the stuff of epic poems and happy endings and Blaine _hates_ it. He burrows his head into Kurt's neck and whimpers. Kurt just squeezes his hand tighter, tighter until he lets out a shaky breath and disentangles himself from Blaine completely.

"You should go," Kurt says.

"Okay."

Kurt watches as Blaine dresses. They don't speak; they don't even look at each other. Blaine wonders if Kurt thinks it's the guilt that keeps him from looking at Kurt; that would be another misunderstanding, another missed opportunity. He doesn't feel guilty, not at all. How could he? This is honoring an old, unspoken promise. It has nothing to do with the men they have promised to love now. Still, the way Blaine slouches and moves slowly, head down, eyes on everything but Kurt, he probably looks like he's letting shame seep in.

_If he thinks that, he's wrong. I'm just too sad, too close to fucking everything up. If he asks, I won't be able to say no._

Blaine crosses to the bed, leans down and kisses Kurt. For a moment he thinks he'll be pulled back in, under the covers, to roll around with Kurt in this bed forever. Kurt has his hand on the back of Blaine's neck, he's up on his knees now, pressing naked skin to Blaine's clothed body, and Blaine has his hand on Kurt's ass, and it's so hot and perfect and _them._

Kurt pulls his lips off of Blaine, presses their foreheads together and says, "Go."

Blaine kisses Kurt one last time and steps away. He doesn't look back, not even when his hand turns the doorknob, not even as the door shuts behind him. He just walks. Down the hall, to the elevator, through the lobby, out the door, down the street. He walks and walks, and with every step he feels more and more... angry. He can still feel Kurt on him, inside him, around him. The loss is too much, and he loathes this place they've let themselves get to. He is so angry with himself, and with Kurt, for being brave about so many things but never about this. Never about _them._

He walks with balled up fists now, eyes dark and desperate.

Without thinking, he goes into the Starbucks. It's just opening up for the day. He walks up to the counter. "One grande medium drip and one grande non-fat mocha, please." And then he's walking again, coffees in hand, back down San Francisco Street, up the steps, through the lobby, down the hallway. 

He stands in front of Kurt’s door. Room 415. Was it just a few hours ago that he faced this door, knowing that what he was about to do was crazy, that it was wrong, and that he had to do it anyway? 

He knocks, and Kurt opens the door. He is red-faced, puffy-eyed, with a towel wrapped around his hips.

"It's still nighttime in Hawaii," Blaine says, handing Kurt his coffee.

Kurt ignores it and throws himself at Blaine, throwing his arms around his neck. He kisses him again and again, little pecks on his cheeks, his lips, his forehead. 

"What are we doing?" Kurt asks.

Blaine steps forward, pushing them back into the room. He says it before he thinks about it, before he realizes what it means, or what he's asking of Kurt and himself, before he changes his mind, because he really doesn't know what he's saying. "You're here for ten more days--"

"Twelve."

"So give me all of them."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for fic overall: Infidelity, profanity, graphic sex, angst.

Chapter 5

Three hours is not enough sleep, but when the phone rings to wake him at ten a.m., Kurt wiggles out of Blaine's tight hold and slips out of bed. He knew it was a bit scandalous to ask for a wake-up call _at seven in the morning,_ but he didn't want to use the alarm on his phone. He knew there would be a text message or a missed call from Paul, and he just couldn't face it, not then.

He can't face it now, either.

Kurt looks down at Blaine, the duvet just barely covering his ass, and despite his lack of sleep and a nagging sense of apprehension working its way up his spine, he feels happy. Giddy, even. 

They're on borrowed time. Stolen time, really. They're stealing moments from Paul and Liam and probably making a huge mistake, but he doesn't care. He'll worry about it when he gets back to New York, when this affair _(shit, is that what this is?)_ is but a memory.

Kurt is ten minutes into his long, hot shower when he realizes he's humming "[Get Happy](http://youtu.be/2U-rBZREQMw)" from _Summer Stock_ It's such a Blaine thing to do, so corny, so cliché, so _not Kurt._ Well. So not Kurt _circa 2025._ He certainly belted out his share of show tunes in the shower, in the car, at school, in Rachel's basement. But he doesn't sing anymore, not seriously. 

_"We're headin' cross the river, wash your sins away in the tide. It's quiet and peaceful on the other side."_ The sound of his own voice, scratchy from crying, from a lack of sleep and from giving one seriously intense blowjob, surprises him. He used to sing every day. He sang alone, and with friends, always, _always_ with Blaine. Not anymore.

_When did I give it up? When was the last time?_

Maybe he sang along to the national anthem when Paul, with a nudge and a million-dollar smile, forced him to join in while visiting then-Governor Cuomo's box at Yankee Stadium. He can't remember. There have been too many tiny, perfectly reasonable compromises and sacrifices, too many subtle shifts away from himself, to count. They all run together now, like a watercolor in the rain, and he can't put his finger on the exact moment when he stopped believing his own hype and acquiesced to a different life, a life that many envy; a life that he still can't imagine for himself, even though he's living it.

Kurt finishes his shower, wraps a towel around his waist and walks back into the room to get ready. He goes through the motions, deep in thought, his movements slow and methodical. 

_Did I sing "Happy Birthday" to Meg at her last birthday party? When was that... wow, was that two years ago already? Or did I sing it into the phone last year? I've never even sung for Paul. Not one song. He'd probably be too embarrassed, anyway. It's been so long since..._

_I forgot. I've forgotten so much._

He's half dressed, slipping one arm into his button-down shirt, when he notices Blaine staring at him from the bed, arms curled around the pillow under his head. Kurt blushes, wondering if Blaine heard him sing in the shower.

"I like watching you," Blaine says.

Kurt smiles. He sits next to him on the edge of the bed, shirt open. "Hey," Kurt says softly. He runs two fingers through Blaine's wild mess of curls.

"Hey." Blaine pulls one hand out from under his pillow and reaches for Kurt, placing it flat on Kurt's belly.

"I have to go see a woman about tile," Kurt says.

Blaine presses Kurt's skin, feeling his abdominal muscles. He slides his hand up Kurt's chest, presses two fingers into Kurt's collarbone and reaches up to cup his chin. "Okay."

Kurt leans down and presses his lips to Blaine's. It's a soft ghost of a kiss—he's not starting something he can't finish—but Blaine gasps nonetheless. Maybe this is how it will be every day until they part: heightened reactions to every little thing, panting and gasping and tugging and pleading and grabbing and holding on just a little too long. They've spent far too much time building up to this, or avoiding it, or both. Probably both. Definitely both. Everything is urgent now, the clock is ticking and Kurt is damn sure of one thing: they will never be satisfied.

Suddenly it occurs to Kurt that they're not stealing moments from anyone, not really. They're reclaiming the moments they left behind.

"Do you have to work today?" Kurt asks.

Blaine nods and stretches, his toes pointing toward the television. The sheet slips off, covering just the tops of his calves. Kurt can't help but look at Blaine's body, olive skin and soft dark hair over compact muscle. His thighs are strong; his chest and abs toned; his interested cock thick and perfect. So perfect. He wants to take Blaine into his mouth, work him over until he's mad for it and then ride him until they both scream.

Kurt licks his lips and looks back at Blaine's face. Blaine is smirking now, his eyes dancing. "You know you want to," he teases.

"True. But if I miss this appointment I won't get another for weeks, and I'm not coming back to Santa Fe just for tile," Kurt says.

The words are out of his mouth before he realizes what he's saying, before he can figure out a better way to say he just wants to be done with this job, not Blaine. "Sorry. That didn't come out right. I just meant... I didn't mean I don't want to come back... to you. Not that we have that option—"

"It's fine. I'm fine. We probably wouldn't be here anyway," Blaine explains. "We'll finish up in a couple of weeks, I imagine. Unless she changes her mind about something."

Kurt takes hold of Blaine's hand, intertwines their fingers and places their palms together, flat, as Blaine did the night before last. 

They've held hands before, many times. That first day they met on the Dalton staircase, when Blaine pulled him from one life into another. The night he moved into the dorms and Blaine held his hand through two episodes of _Project Runway,_ just because Kurt was nervous about being away from his Dad so soon after his heart attack. They had made a habit of holding _\--gripping--_ each other's hands as they waited to hear the results of each competition. They held hands to offer each other comfort, reassurance, an anchor.

And sometimes they held hands because they couldn't bring themselves to do anything more than that, like that night at David's bachelor party when they held hands under the table, thumbs rubbing over knuckles, wrists, palms, keeping their attraction a secret from the group and themselves. That was five years ago; the last time they saw each other in person. They had never spoken of it.

Blaine watches Kurt's face as he reminisces. He must look pained, because Blaine asks, "Are you okay? You look sad."

"I think maybe we're insane," Kurt replies, staring at their hands.

"But not wrong. Never wrong."

"That's debatable."

Blaine pushes back on Kurt's hand a bit and says, "It can't be helped, Kurt. You know that."

"I do, yes."

Kurt pushes back on Blaine's hand one last time, and then swoops in for a brief, hot kiss. He stands, buttons up his shirt, puts on his shoes and packs his phone and wallet in his bag, all while Blaine's follow him.

"See you later?" Blaine asks, like it's normal, like this thing they're doing won't wreck everything, like it won't kill them.

"Of course. When?"

"Dinner? I'll be done around eight, I think. Maybe earlier. Adele's husband is flying in for the benefit, and she'll want to break to have dinner with him."

"Great. See you," Kurt says, leaning down to give Blaine's thigh a quick squeeze. 

He's halfway to the door when it hits him: he doesn't really know how to do the next twelve days. Will they spend every spare moment in his hotel room or Blaine's? Will they behave as two old friends would, except more (so much more)? Will they have a chance to be together, to really _be together,_ if just for a few days? Or is that asking too much?

Kurt turns back and stands at the edge of the bed. He tries to get the words out, but so much has changed between them, cracked wide open and set on fire, that he can't remember the rules anymore—what can be said, what must remain unsaid.

He's silent, fiddling with the strap on his messenger bag, trying not to look nervous, when Blaine says, "Tell me."

Kurt exhales. "So can I take you on a date, or is this strictly a hotel thing?" he asks.

"We didn't cover that this morning, did we?"

"We didn't cover much."

"Is that something you wanted to do? Before?"

"Of course. But that's not really a secret, now, is it? I mean, I told you how I felt about you, once upon a Valentine's Day," Kurt replies.

Blaine's smile is rueful, but he doesn't explain it. Instead he crawls over to the edge of the bed and pulls Kurt down to sit next to him. "What about now? That was just a crush, right? And you're not in love with me, now; you're in love with Paul. So, would you... is that something you want to do now?"

Kurt wants to tell him it wasn't just a crush; it was everything. It was everything and it was too soon and he was so fucking angry about it, because who gets to keep everything at seventeen? Why couldn't it have happened later, when he knew more about himself, when he'd seen enough and loved enough and discovered enough about himself to say, "Yes, I'll have this, I'll take this everything and keep it forever?"

Instead, Kurt says, "Maybe we can... just for these days we have left—" Kurt sighs, unable to say what he means because he's not really sure himself. "I don't want this to feel like an affair... even if that's exactly what this is."

"That's not what this is."

"Okay, so—" Kurt stops himself from asking, _so what is this then?_

Blaine lets the silence fall between them and then grabs Kurt's hand again. He leans in, hot breath on Kurt's neck, and kisses him in the spot right under his ear. Kurt turns his head to look at Blaine, who offers up one of his all-over grins and says, "I'd love to go on a date with you."

"It seems so wrong to call it a date," Kurt says.

_"You asked."_

"I know, I know, but, hearing you accept, it sounds so—"

"Stop. Seriously, just stop. I don't want to spend all of our time together worrying about what's right or if we should go to the fucking movies or not, or hold hands in public or not, or anything else we want to do. I'm in this, and I'll accept the consequences when it's over. Until then, I want to just do whatever we want to do, whatever feels right."

Kurt sucks in a breath, because this is Blaine, wanting to be with him without limits, even if just for a few moments, and he can't walk away from that now. 

"Okay. I'm in," Kurt says.

Blaine holds Kurt's face in his hands and looks right into his eyes. "No rules."

"No rules," Kurt agrees.

"No worries."

"No worries," Kurt agrees.

"No regrets."

"No regrets," Kurt says, giving Blaine a quick kiss on the lips. "For now."

*****

 

Blaine takes another sip of his energy drink and tries to decide if he should just tell her the truth, or let her wonder forever. Everyone saw their intense make-out at The Pink last night—the band, Gretchen, everyone. And they all know Liam. Gretchen adores him, in fact. But Blaine knows that if he asks them to, they'll keep their mouths shut. They probably wouldn't say anything to Liam even if he didn't.

But still.

It's not over yet. So there's that. He can't pretend it was a one-time thing, something his friends can easily overlook. And he doesn't intend to cheapen what he has with Kurt by sneaking around as if what they've done is wrong or shameful. Because it isn't. At least, it doesn't _feel_ that way. Not yet. And his friends are bound to see them together at some point, they'll get to watch it unfold and come apart, so what's the point of lying now?

"I was worried as fuck, Blaine," Adele continues, mid-rant. He had tuned her out five minutes ago, trying to sort out a reply to her earlier question. "Answer your fucking texts, why don't you?"

"I'm sorry. Really, I am. I didn't think to check my phone," Blaine replies.

"So did you or didn't you?" And there's the question again, so bold and finite.

_Did I let myself be, for once? Did I give in? Did I do what I should have done years ago? Did I finally learn what it feels like to lose myself in someone completely? Did I have the most amazing night of my life with my dearest friend in the whole entire world?_

"Yes. Yes, I did."

"Fuck."

"I know," Blaine says. "But I'm not sorry."

"Are you a thing, now? Finally? Or what?"

"Yes. For twelve days."

Blaine explains their agreement to her, lays it all out for her. He tries to make it sound sensible, but it's difficult, because he knows their situation is anything but.

Adele listens carefully, and then says, "Cheating on Liam—"

"I _know--"_

"Hold up. Listen. Cheating on Liam is the _least_ of it. Last night... you weren't just dancing with Kurt. You were _clutching_ him, Blaine. And you weren't just kissing. That was pure worship. That was an _embrace."_

Blaine lets out a heavy sigh and sinks down into the leather couch. There's no one in the studio but the two of them—the others are out to lunch—so he lets himself fall to pieces under her watchful gaze.

"I'm so fucked," he says.

Adele slips off her stool and sits next to him. She bumps her knee against his playfully, letting him know she's not judging him, that she's just his friend, just _here._ This is major, and there will be casualties. Everyone will be worried about Liam, but she's worried about Blaine. She knows that his heart is about to break into countless tiny pieces, so many he'll never find all of them; so many he'll never be whole. And it won't be because he'll lose Liam. It's Kurt who will break him, and there's nothing anyone can do or say about it, least of all her.

"What the hell are you going to do?"

He looks at her now, jaw set, his eyes wet with unshed tears. "Take everything he'll give me until the very last second."

She doesn't try and talk him out of it; there's no point. She just leans into him again and says, "Oh, Blaine... how are we going to put you back together again?"

"It doesn't matter. He's worth it."

They both lean their heads back on the couch. They're quiet for a few minutes, contemplating ceiling tiles, listening to the low hum of the electronic equipment, and then Adele kills the moment, saying, "It was that fucking song, wasn't it?"

And they laugh—big, full-body, silly laughs, feeding off of each other, stupid with it, rolling around on the couch until they make themselves stop.

When they calm down, Blaine looks back at the ceiling and says, "You're my favorite."

"I know, dear one. Fancy a burger? My salad is for shit."

*****

 

"So she says, 'But _Kurt,_ we've done this all wrong. Trinity Stupidbitch insists that in Santa Fe you start with the door FIRST, and then build the house AROUND it.' God. Is this my life? Because if this is my life, I want a do-over," Kurt says.

"Trinity Stupidbitch?" Antonio asks, trying not to laugh.

"Whatever. She's stupid and she's a bitch. I can't be bothered to remember her actual name, so I made one up that suits her better."

"Yeah, but... _Trinity?"_

"Oh I didn't make that part up. That is her first name," Kurt says.

"I can't imagine Deidre Alexander hanging out with anyone who has conviction, much less someone who comes from a family so devout they named their kid after the Holy Trinity," Antonio says.

They're killing time in the FedEx line, waiting for an obnoxious woman to finish harassing the poor college-age kid behind the counter about missing boxes. She's screaming about small claims court, and something else about "the hand of God" when Kurt's eyes fixate on the small gold cross hanging from Antonio's neck. Suddenly he's very embarrassed.

"I didn't mean to offend you," Kurt says. Antonio looks at him quizzically and Kurt explains. "About Trinity. I mean, you're... well, I don't know _what_ you are, exactly. But you seem to be... are you Catholic? I mean, are you religious? I probably shouldn't even ask. I mean, we've never talked about this before."

"You can ask. I was raised Catholic, yes. But I only go to mass when my mother asks me to now, holy days, family celebrations, that sort of thing," Antonio replies. "The cross is from my grandmother. I wear it mostly for sentimental reasons."

"Why don't you go to mass anymore?"

"Well, some say all religions are imperfect in some way, that I should just overlook the things that piss me off and focus on what's really important, but I just can't do that," Antonio explains.

"What pisses you off, exactly?"

"Hypocrisy. The Pope's stance on birth control, abortion, homosexuality. The massive sexual abuse cover-up. Should I go on?"

"No. I get it."

"I do miss the ritual of it all, though. Sometimes I go to the Cathedral—"

"The one off the Plaza?"

"St. Francis, yes. Sometimes I go there and light a candle for my grandmother and just sit in a pew and pray. It's simpler that way. It's just me, and God. It's nice."

Kurt is quiet for a minute. He never had any use for God or religion or prayer—he had music. Music had been his religion. Music and art and aesthetics. He wonders if Antonio misses his religion like he misses music.

"Catholics have confession, right? Did you ever go?"

"Every Wednesday."

"And did you... did you feel better, after confessing your sins?"

"It always feels better to talk to someone about your problems, sure. But I don't really believe in sin the way my family believes," Antonio says. "I believe sin is acting against your own truth."

"Like knowing what's right and doing the opposite?" Kurt asks.

"Sort of. It's more like, knowing what's right _for you,_ and going against that. I'm oversimplifying, but you know, that's the basic gist of it."

A supervisor ushers the irate woman off to the side and the shell-shocked kid waves Antonio and Kurt forward. Antonio's words hang heavy in the air as they step up, setting their two boxes of tile samples on the counter. Kurt knows Antonio and Sarah saw him dance with Blaine, saw him give himself over to the moment like they were the last two people on earth. He wants to tell him he's in trouble, he's headed for a breakdown and he can't stop. He wants to tell his friend he had it all figured out until last night, until Blaine uttered those four simple words: _"I've always wanted you."_

He wants to tell him everything because he needs a friend, someone who won't judge him, someone who didn't know them before, when they were kids and made all the wrong choices...

"Kurt? Overnight?"

"Hmm?"

"You want these boxes to go overnight, right?"

"Oh. Yes. Morning delivery, please."

Kurt decides to keep his confession to himself for now. He smiles at Antonio and says instead, "It's a beautiful necklace, Antonio."

"Thanks."

Kurt texts Blaine on their way back downtown. There's this little Italian restaurant he's been meaning to try, just a short walk from the Alexander house. It has a New York feel, small, with clean lines, white tablecloths on square tables, simple flower arrangements and an excellent wine list.

**To Blaine:  
Meet me at Il Piatto on Marcy Street at 8:30?**

Kurt tries not to look at his screen. Blaine is working; he won't get back to him right away. He's busy. 

His phone buzzes not thirty seconds later.

**To Kurt:  
Yes. Perfect.**

Kurt imagines the two of them eating and talking and staying too long, and then walking back to the hotel, hand-in-hand, sneaking glances...

"You know what I think is the worst possible sin?" Antonio asks, interrupting Kurt's daydream.

"I'm afraid to answer," Kurt teases. "Faux leather? Wearing a cowboy hat from Target?"

"Chickening out."

"On what?"

"The life you were meant to live."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for fic overall: Infidelity, profanity, graphic sex, angst.

It's impossible to remember all of the wasted moments, much less add them up to make sense of how things went very and truly wrong, but Kurt is giving it a good try anyway. Sitting on the floor in Deidre Alexander's enormous guest bathroom, he stares at the row of tile lined up along the baseboard—indigo, midnight, ocean—and tries to piece it all together.

All through high school, Kurt held out hope Blaine would get his shit together. After that day Kurt claimed the Meg Ryan role in their _When Harry Met Sally_ relationship there were three overnight bus trips to competitions and hundreds of "just the two of us" outings to the movies, to plays, to the mall, to the Lima Bean. 

They had taken at least a dozen day trips to cute little homophobic towns with antique shops and cherry festivals and pie, and had spent countless hours in each other's dorm rooms, cars and other intimate spaces. They had wandered off from at least seven New Directions blowouts and four Warbler's Official Mixers so that they could gossip or just talk about whatever crucial revelation one of them had in the four and a half hours they _hadn't_ seen each other. 

And of course, there was Jeff's Stupid Camping Trip.

Through all of the moonlight and darkness and quiet, the firelight on young faces in the common room, the haze of Puck's mystery drink, the accidental brushing of legs and stocking-covered feet on double beds, the cloud formations and piles of autumn leaves and the sweet-smelling rain, the _proximity,_ Kurt had expected Blaine to take advantage of one, _just one_ of those "movie" moments and kiss him senseless. But he never did.

The way Kurt saw it, these were Blaine's wasted moments, not his. He stated his intentions and played along and waited patiently for the big moment, the revelation, the declaration of love that never came. Wisconsin was the end of that, because in Wisconsin it was Kurt who wasted the biggest moment of all.

Uncrossing his legs and bringing his knees up to his chest, Kurt remembers water lapping against the sides of a dock in a lake far away, a pink, green and yellow glow reflecting in hazel eyes on a night long ago. 

It was the moment to end all moments. They were skinny-dipping in a lake, under the northern lights, a short walk from a parent-free cabin; it was a now or never moment if there ever was one. And Kurt blew it. He took one look at Blaine's expectant gaze, placed two hands flat on the dock and pulled himself up out of the water and away from any chance that they would finally get what they both wanted.

It wasn't the last time Kurt wasted an opportunity to reach out and grab this thing between them and hold it steady, to let it land and settle between them and allow it to ripen and grow and shape them into the men they were always meant to be. But it _was_ the last time he hoped they would get their own movie ending, because for the first time, _he_ was the coward. 

It was the realization that they were _both_ cowards that inspired Kurt to make a decision: he would learn how to be happy living a different life, without Blaine.

From that moment forward, he held them both equally responsible for the wasted moments. And soon enough, the business of growing up eroded their everyday familiarity and these moments wound together and formed the DNA of their relationship; these moments _defined_ them, in the same way their love _should have_ defined them. And it all felt wrong, so very wrong.

Until they actually did the "wrong" thing and everything felt so very _right._

Kurt shakes off the memories and pulls his phone from his pocket. He's been avoiding Paul all day, afraid to let reality seep into the lovely awesome that has enveloped him ever since Blaine showed up at his hotel room door. His finger skates through the texts, expecting to find a dozen or more anxious messages, but there are only four; just the regular kind.

**Paul:  
Did I miss you again? Still burning ALL of the candles at both ends here. We may have a deal with Tobias. Not sure yet. Love you.**

**Paul:  
Damn. I keep forgetting the time difference. You're probably still sleeping. Call me when you get this.**

**Paul:  
Forgot to ask about work. How is Mrs. Crazy? Are you done yet?**

**Paul:  
Just tried to call you. Dinner break. Thought I'd spend it with you. What are we doing for Christmas? Can we be in NY on the 27th? I might have a thing.**

He knows he should call Paul, even if it's just to leave him a voicemail, but he doesn't want to hear Paul's voice. He's afraid that even his short, businesslike recorded message ("If this is an urgent matter, please contact my assistant, April Clark at 917...") will be the pinprick that bursts the highly inappropriate, delicious bubble he's been living in for the past twenty-two hours.

It's not like they haven't gone weeks without talking before, what with Paul's commitments to President Cuomo and Kurt's willingness to let him disappear into his work without complaint. Paul can wait. As long as Kurt sends him a text, Paul won't miss him much; and even if he does, he'll be too busy to do anything about it.

**Kurt:  
Got your messages. Working hard to get this done to avoid a second trip. Dinner meeting tonight, sorry. Good luck with everything. Keep me posted via text, if you can. Yes, NY on the 27th is fine. xxoo**

And there it is: the first outright lie.

_Dinner meeting._

_Since when do I send little x's and o's? Trying to get my fiancé to text me so I don't have to hear his voice. I'm a liar. A liar and a cheat. And a liar._

Kurt stands and makes his way through the house, touching walls, brushing fingertips on polished wood, the backs of chairs, the dining room table. He's reminded of a conversation he had with Carole just before Finn's wedding. They had stayed up until the wee hours, rethinking the seating chart longer than was actually necessary, Carole nervous about letting go of her son and Kurt nervous about seeing Blaine in a tux. Somehow they ended up talking until dawn, two empty wine bottles and a half-full bowl of pita chips between them. It was the kind of intimate conversation Kurt had always hoped to have with his own mother.

He didn't talk much about Blaine that night, though he did discuss other boys he dated and liked and kissed, the boys with whom he had shared firsts. Carole didn't discuss her true feelings about Finn's milestone either, instead choosing to match Kurt's stories with her own dating adventures. It was somewhere around four a.m. when she admitted to once cheating on one of her boyfriends, a tallish firefighter she once loved enough to practice saying her first name with his last.

At the time, Kurt was shocked; her secret seemed incongruous with the warm, pleasant, unwavering loyalty of the woman he had come to know and love. When he asked her if she had ever come clean, Carole looked right at Kurt and said, "Honey, confessing to an affair that's over, well, that's just selfish. Sleeping with Steven didn't change my feelings toward Brian one bit. Telling him would have made me feel better, sure, but it would have broken Brian's heart unnecessarily." 

She smiled at his wide eyes, then, adding, "It was my mistake, so I chose to live with the guilt. And believe me that stuff eats you up inside. It's a harsh punishment."

Looking at Deidre Alexander's still-unpainted kitchen, Kurt wants to call Carole and tell her everything. He wants to lean into her soothing voice, rest his worries on her wisdom and let her unconditional love wrap around him and shield him from the guilt rising up in his gut. He knew it would show up eventually, because as much as he is part of Carole, influenced by her example and sage advice, he is, above all, his father's son.

And Burt Hummel never lies. 

Kurt closes the blue door behind him and makes his way from the Alexander house to Blaine. _Blaine._ Blaine who is _on his way to meet him._ Blaine who is his _date._ Blaine who is not his fiancé. Blaine who belongs to someone else.

_How can two cheaters go on a date? Is that even possible? Is it called something else? Is it a rendezvous? A hookup? A big fat lie dressed up to look like something normal, something real?_

Kurt's thoughts overwhelm him, churn in his belly and twist up his spine until he feels a little bit sick. It's only a short walk to Il Piatto and he's early, so he decides to do the only thing that will make him feel better. He thumbs through his contacts, brings up the familiar face and presses "Call." 

The phone rings twice and then, "Kurt? What's up, buddy?"

"Hi, Dad."

"Hi. You okay?"

"Sure. Yes. I just haven't talked to you much lately, so I thought we could catch up."

It's almost ten o'clock in Ohio, and Kurt knows his dad is sitting in the family room in his giant brown leather recliner, trying to stay awake long enough to greet Carole after her three to eleven shift. The fact that his parents haven't altered their routine since he and Finn lived at home is more than just a comfort for Kurt; it is the constant that keeps him from feeling lost, even when he is.

"Something's bugging you," Burt says.

"Not at all... I—"

"Kurt, just tell me. What's going on? What do you need? Do you need something?"

_Do you need something?_

"Why would you say that? I'm fine," Kurt says, hurriedly. There is a short pause and then he asks, "Why _did_ you say that?"

"I don't know. You just seem... not yourself," Burt says in a careful tone. _"Do_ you need something?"

_Do I need something? Fuck yes, I do. I need to feel like this is all okay, that I'm not a total and complete bastard. I need to confess. I need forgiveness. I need more than twelve days. I need—_

"Kurt, I can't help you, buddy, if you don't tell me what's up," Burt says.

"I'm in Santa Fe," Kurt starts.

"Yeah? You're still working on that job, then?"

"Yes... Dad—" and he can't say what he needs to say, so he diverts. "Did you know that you can see four mountain ranges from here?"

"No kidding? I'd like to see that."

"I finally get that whole 'purple mountains majesty' thing," Kurt says.

"Nice sunsets, I suppose."

"Yes. And sunrises." Kurt pauses, takes a deep breath and lets out a heavy sigh. "I ran into Blaine."

"Where? In Santa Fe?"

"Yes. We're staying in the same hotel," Kurt explains.

"You just, ran into each other? I thought he was living in England or something," Burt says.

"How do you know that?"

"Finn."

"Oh."

"So I'm guessing there's a problem somewhere in this story, or you wouldn't be calling me. Is Blaine okay?"

"Yes, yes. He's fine. He's good," Kurt says. "It's, uh, complicated."

Kurt hears his father sigh and move about in his chair. He imagines him there, in that room filled with family pictures and framed football jerseys, sitting up and forward in his chair as if Kurt were right there in front of him, just as he did whenever Kurt was in trouble. 

"Just how complicated are we talking here, Kurt?"

"Um... very?"

"Christ."

"Dad, I—"

"Now, Kurt? After all these years, you two decide to do, whatever it is you're doing, _now?"_

"I know, it's crazy, _we're crazy—"_

"Does Paul know?"

"No, god no. Never," Kurt insists.

"Never, huh? Exactly what are you and Blaine doing here, kid? Because if it's what I think it is, you have to tell Paul. And if it's what _you_ have convinced yourself it is, you still have to tell him. You can't be a liar, too, Kurt."

His father's words are like a blow to the gut. Kurt stops and grabs hold of the nearest wall for support. He doesn't say anything for a moment, just lets the silence and the weight of his deeds hang between them as, fourteen hundred miles apart, they both swallow, take a breath, and swallow again.

Just then, he spots Blaine not a block away, walking up Marcy Street toward Il Piatto. Kurt slips into the entryway of a shop and tries to mold himself against the blue door—always the same Santa Fe blue—as he watches Blaine look up and around and finally notice the restaurant. 

Blaine looks gorgeous in his dark denim, a crisp, soft pink button-down and a brown, tailored leather jacket. He watches him take a moment to look at the menu posted on the glass outside and has to look away so he doesn't shout out to him, run to him, grab him in a crushing embrace and never let him go.

Kurt looks up and notices the Marcy Street Card Shop sign. He peers in the window at the darkened store, at shelves of greeting cards and love notes and handmade paper, and says the thing he hasn't told a living soul.

"It _is_ what you think it is. I'm hopelessly in love with Blaine, and he came for me, and I couldn't say no," Kurt says. "I couldn't say no."

"Jesus. I should have locked you two in the basement years ago," Burt says. "But somehow I think even if you were stranded together on a friggin' deserted island, you still wouldn't man up and do what needs to be done."

"I'm not going to argue with you, Dad. You're right, of course. I've spent the last few hours running over every time... well, it doesn't matter. What matters is we were both stupid—"

"—And chicken shit—"

"Yes, that too. But we're not doing that anymore. Now we—"

"Now you're engaged, Kurt. And Blaine, is he screwing around on anyone?"

The words cut right through Kurt's heart. But he deserves it. Every bit of it. So he fights the urge to hang up and answers: "Yes. A boyfriend."

"And he loves him?"

"Yes. I think so."

"And you still love Paul?"

"I do love Paul, but—"

"Never mind. I know it's not the same. Anyone who ever spent even five minutes with you two together knows you and Blaine have that star-crossed chemistry thing going on. How is Paul supposed to compete with that?"

"He doesn't have to. As soon as I'm done with this job, I'm going back to New York, to Paul. Blaine and I agreed."

"So you're just going to mess around on your future husband for a few days and then never tell him?"

Kurt can hear the disappointment in Burt's voice, and he wants to reach through the phone, get on his knees and beg for his forgiveness.

"Dad, I don't know what to do. I just... I can't stop. Not now. I just... I _need_ this."

Burt heaves a big sigh and Kurt imagines him rubbing his jaw, his face stern and his eyes filled with anger. 

"Look, kid, you know I love you no matter what, but you have to do the right thing here. And I can't tell you what that is. I know you called me because you want me to tell you, but you're a grown man, Kurt. You need to figure out what's right for you, and have the courage to make it so. Even if it's the hardest thing," Burt says. "Except that part about telling Paul. Whatever happens, you owe it to him to tell him the truth. All of it. Not just this Santa Fe stuff. _All of it."_

"Okay, Dad."

"Okay, then."

"I love you, Dad."

"So much, kid."

"Don't be worried, Dad."

"Fat chance."

"Thank you. Bye."

"Bye. Take care of _you."_

****

 

Blaine sits at the table Kurt reserved, a small square table for two in the corner near the window, feeling at once seventeen and ancient. He's nervous, and it's more than just first-date nervous, it's _first-date-ever_ nervous. But after a long life of dashed hope and longing, he's also weary. Without Kurt next to him, the flood of hell-to-pay creeps in and even though he can't _—won't—_ do anything to stop it, it's there, right there, at the base of his skull. He wants to jump around _and_ take a nap.

_But isn't that how it always is with us? Aren't we always two things, or many things, or everything all in one moment? Will this ever make sense? Could we ever just be? After this... even after this?_

Blaine fiddles with his phone and calls up Liam's email for the third time that day. He'd canceled their Skype date, knowing full well he'd probably be tangled up in Kurt's sheets by midnight and wouldn't want to stop in order to have Skype sex with his boyfriend. It felt wrong, the thought of leaving one man for another in the same night, but not in the way he expected it to feel wrong. He canceled his plans with Liam because it felt oddly like, if he went through with this very simple thing he often did with his boyfriend, he would be betraying _Kurt._

**Blaine,**

**Why do I get the feeling you're out there, lost in the desert, and may never come home? Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me I'm just missing you and freaking out for nothing.**

**Call me when you can.**

**Liam**

It wasn't the first time Blaine had canceled something with Liam. He made work his priority, often staying late at the studio or playing an extra set at the tucked-away pubs he frequented. He reasoned that he was just one of those people who needed a lot of time alone, who was dedicated to his work, who liked to keep some things to himself. But deep down, he knew it was more than that. He'd never really given himself over to anyone, not really.

He loved Liam, partly because Liam was the first guy who accepted his inherent distance, the first guy who just let him go off and do his thing without grumbling about it, or questioning his fidelity or interest. It was easy. They had fun. The sex, while not satisfying, was regular, and they rarely argued. Their relationship was comfortable, but he never felt that all-consuming, hot, firework kind of love with Liam, not even in the beginning. If he were brutally honest with himself, he would have to admit that he got more goosebumps after receiving a text from Kurt than he did while receiving a blowjob from Liam.

Sex with Liam was like getting off with a friend.

Sex with Kurt was like setting his soul on fire.

Sitting in this tiny Italian restaurant, waiting for this boy he's always loved, Blaine knows now that his relationship has worked so far in spite of him. Liam always compromised and waited patiently without protest. He took what he could get from Blaine and never asked for more. That which is good between them is all Liam, and he's starting to feel mighty guilty about it.

His entire time in Santa Fe, Blaine had been pulling away from Liam, beyond the norm. He used everything as an excuse—Adele's whims, his muse, the demands of the record company—but he knows now what kept him from truly engaging with Liam these past few weeks. He was preparing for this, for Kurt. Now that they are wrapped up in the tether that binds them together, he knows that he has been waiting for him here, in this enchanted, dusty city, all along.

Liam deserves more, so much more, and Blaine doesn't want him to worry unnecessarily. So he shoots off a quick, short email. Liam will receive it when he wakes up.

**Liam,**

**I haven't been myself lately. I've had a long day and I'm turning in early. I'll call you tomorrow and tell you everything.**

**Love,**

**B**

Blaine regrets sending it almost immediately. He didn't address Liam's concerns, and he outright lied about going to bed early. And "everything?" He doesn't even know what that means. Is he going to tell him the whole story, or just portion it off, leaving out the stuff that would kill what they have?

_Is Liam my backup plan? Was he always? Can I spend the rest of my life with a backup? Doesn't Liam also deserve this mind-blowing, life-defining love?_

He wants to call Liam and confess, promise to work on their problems when he returns or set him free, but he knows he can't do either of these things. Liam is sleeping, but that's the least of it. How could he tell him any of this without sounding like a prime asshole, without breaking his heart?

Just then he hears a familiar voice in the main dining room near the entrance. "Hummel. But I'm meeting a friend—"

Kurt's body is stiff. Blaine knows he's stressed about something. He watches Kurt weave his way through the tables, smiling down at other diners as he shimmies through the tight spaces. 

Blaine's heart races; his palms sweat. He's known this man for more than a decade, known him since before he needed to shave, before he fell in love with furniture design and sushi and Patsy Cline, before he discovered Armistead Maupin and Bombay Sapphire gin and Yaz, before he could vote or make lobster bisque or navigate the subway without a map. He's had sex with this man, but still, _still,_ he feels the same heady anticipation he's felt ever since he sang _Teenage Dream_ to a perfect stranger.

Kurt makes his way to their table and Blaine can see the precise moment when his shoulders relax and he lets go of the worries he carried in with him. Blaine stands, ready to hold out his chair for him, but Kurt stops him cold with a raised eyebrow. He hangs his bag off his chair and sits down, eyes locking with Blaine's. Their grins take the place of words and they stay like that, staring, smiling, the air between them charged and thick with promise. Out of the corner of his eye, Blaine sees their server start toward them, size up the scene and then step back and lean against the bar, waiting.

Blaine reaches over and takes Kurt's hand in his own, his eyes fixed on Kurt's lips, the faint red mark just below his left ear, the blush on his cheeks. Kurt squeezes and thumbs the back of Blaine's hand, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, and it sends a jolt of _amazing_ and _holy shit you're gorgeous_ straight to Blaine's heart. They stay like that for a few minutes, long enough for the nearest diners to notice. 

Then, just when Blaine wonders if they should just ditch the restaurant and make a run for the hotel, Kurt leans in to whisper, "I already love this night."

Blaine gasps. He _gasps._ Like a teenaged girl.

Kurt squeezes Blaine's hand one more time and then leans back in his chair, his smile almost a smirk, but not quite. Blaine laughs and nods at the server. She bounces over, all blonde hair and brightness. 

"I'm Gloria. May I take your drink order, or would you like to hear the specials now?"

"We'll take a bottle of Prosecco," Blaine replies.

"And water," Kurt adds.

"Perfect. I'll be back in two shakes," Gloria says.

"Who says that?" Kurt asks, after she scurries away.

"Gloria, apparently."

Kurt licks his lips. It's an absentminded gesture, one that reassures Blaine. Kurt is nervous, too. They're quiet again, not sure how to start. They both look down at their menus—just meaningless letters floating on paper the color of wheat—searching for something to say.

Gloria returns before long, opens the Prosecco, splashes the first taste into Blaine's glass and offers it to him. He's practiced in his inspection and appreciation of the Italian wine, drawing on his country-club-prep-school-garden-party upbringing with ease. 

Blaine doesn't like to call attention to this aspect of his past, and does his best to avoid any and all functions where he would be expected to behave in a way "befitting the Ohio Andersons." He left that behind when he said "no" to his father's Harvard dreams and followed his own.

This is the sort of thing a first date wouldn't know. He'd have to work up to it, peel away layers slowly until the real Blaine Anderson was revealed. But Kurt already knows the real Blaine Anderson. He knows that proper etiquette is second nature to Blaine, but that he really doesn't give a damn about tasting the wine _before_ they actually drink it; they ordered it, so they'll drink it.

As Gloria recites the specials in minute detail, Blaine pretends to listen attentively; he's just going to order the steak, anyway. He steals a glance at Kurt, who isn't listening at all. He's staring at Blaine, a knowing smile at his lips, making it very difficult for Blaine to keep up his good manners. Gloria somehow manages to get their orders out of them. As soon as she leaves, Kurt leans in again.

"I knew you would order the steak," Kurt says, adding, "You're so poised tonight, so dapper. You know it's just me, right? You can tuck the breeding in your back pocket, if you like."

"I know," Blaine replies, looking uncomfortable.

"Manners are important, of course, but you're holding yourself like you're on display at one of your mother's fundraisers," Kurt chides.

"Sorry, I—" Blaine offers.

"What?"

"It's just, I'm sort of at a loss here. You already know everything about me," Blaine says.

"And?"

"And it's messing with my first date game," Blaine replies, a twinkle in his eyes.

Kurt laughs and says, "Since when do you have game?"

"Hey, now—"

"You want to tell me all about your childhood, your hopes and dreams?" Kurt asks.

"Stop teasing."

"Come on, give me your best first date story. I want to hear you tell it," Kurt says.

"No way. You'll laugh."

"Probably. Do it anyway," Kurt says, fixing him with a darkened stare. "Give it to me."

And then it hits Blaine—oh yeah, this is them. This is Blaine and Kurt volleying, pushing the limits, getting off on getting each other riled up. Except this time is different. This time, there's no pulling back. This time, all of their play will lead to something. Something awesome. It's just them, minus the hellish sexual frustration. He sets his first date jitters aside and relaxes into it.

"Shit. _Okay._ I used to be the lead singer of this all boys singing group, the Warblers," Blaine begins.

"All boys? Do tell."

"We were prep school kids, Dalton Academy, never out of uniform—"

"Are you sure you're not confusing your life with porn?"

Blaine glares at Kurt, but there's no heat behind it. He's fine with the teasing, more than fine with it. He's happy to let Kurt tease him for years, decades even, all the way to the old age home.

He teases back. _"This_ is how you would genuinely respond to my story on our first date?"

"If I didn't know you? Probably. Maybe. Go on," Kurt urges.

"We had this bird, a canary. We named him Pavarotti, and we made all of the initiates take care of him, and carry him around in this bird cage," Blaine continues, eyes gleaming.

"How bizarre," Kurt says, feigning shock.

"As hazing goes, it was pretty tame. Anyway, one spring, our newest Warbler decided Pavarotti deserved a better life, a life outside of the cage—"

Blaine watches as Kurt's eyes get big and his cheeks flare up. 

"Oh, no—" Kurt says.

"Oh, yes. So this Warbler, a stunning countertenor—"

"Thank you."

"Well, you were."

"I know. Please don't go on."

"This stunning countertenor takes it upon himself to set the bird free at our Regionals performance, not realizing that there was no way for Pavarotti to actually exit the auditorium. So the bird is flying overhead, frantic, and the audience is going nuts—"

"Stop, just stop—"

"—and suddenly we hear this bang! This giant woman in a red tracksuit shoots the poor bird with her pocket pistol. The New Directions girls—our competition—start screaming, 'murderer!' The Warblers are freaking out—my friend Wes actually vomited on the stage—and the judges are wrestling the track suit lady—"

"Coach Sylvester—"

"Right. They're wrestling her to the ground, the littlest one shouting all of this stuff about the right to bear arms. It was mayhem. Pandemonium."

"Seriously, Blaine? _This_ is the story you tell all of your dates?"

"No. Not really."

"I still feel badly about that. It was horrifying! I played 'Blackbird' over and over in my room for days after that," Kurt says.

"Really? I didn't know that."

"I wanted to sing it for all of us, _with_ the Warblers, but I just felt so bad I'd killed that poor bird, I couldn't come to practice for days. Remember?"

Kurt holds his hand up to his mouth, and for a minute Blaine thinks he's upset, thinking about causing the death of his beloved bird. But then he notices Kurt's shoulders jiggling and he realizes Kurt is trying not to laugh. He decides to push him over the edge.

"And then, _then..._ oh god, remember Rachel carrying the dead bird over to Finn, shrieking at him: 'Mouth to mouth, Finn. Mouth to mouth!' The. Best."

Kurt nods, but keeps his hand over his mouth, holding steady. "Whatever happened to that bird, anyway?" Blaine asks.

Kurt removes his hand and says, "Brittany snuck it into her purse and brought it home to Lord Tubbington."

That's it. Kurt loses it. He laughs so hard he throws his head back and clutches the table. And Blaine loves this—Kurt, unwound over a shared memory, loose and happy and silly. All too soon, though, he remembers his surroundings and calms himself down, wiping tiny tears out of the corners of his eyes.

"I haven't thought of that in years," Kurt says, taking a drink of wine.

Gloria returns to the table with two Caesar salads and a pepper mill. She lingers too long, clearly wanting in on the joke, but Blaine shoos her away with a kind, "Thank you, Gloria."

"So what else?" Kurt asks.

"What else what?"

"What else do you talk about on a first date?"

"I don't know. I don't really plan these things," Blaine says.

"Sure you do. You've got this whole relaxed, musician-slash-record producer, expat thing going on, but you're still a planner, Blaine Anderson."

"Okay. I like to do the 'proudest moment, deepest regret' bit," Blaine starts.

"Very 'job interview,' Blaine. Hot."

"I ask first, of course."

"Of course."

Blaine puts on his earnest face and interview voice and asks, "So, what is your proudest moment, Kurt?"

Kurt tries not to giggle. "Proudest moment, proudest moment... the day Dad, Carole and Finn signed a note—in _blood—_ that they would never, ever shop at Wal-Mart again."

"Good one. And your deepest regret?"

And oh, maybe this wasn't the best idea Blaine's ever had, because Kurt is frowning now. He looks worried and sad and somehow smaller than he did just one minute ago.

"Kurt, you don't really have to—"

"Wisconsin."

"Sorry?"

"My deepest regret is Wisconsin."

"Oh."

"Yeah. _Oh,"_ Kurt says, lifting his eyes up from his lap as though they weigh ten pounds.

With that one word, _Wisconsin,_ Blaine is transported back, not just to the day and the dock and the boy, but the feeling. He had pushed past their boundaries and outright asked Kurt for his virginity in exchange for his own, and it was one of the stupidest things he'd ever done. Because when he said, _"We could, you know, be each other's first,"_ what he really meant to say was, _"Could I be yours, and would you be mine, first and last, in everything, for as long as we both shall live?"_

"For a moment there I thought you were going to say yes," Blaine says out loud.

"I was. I would have. But—"

"Kurt, wait. We said no regrets and we need to stick to that, or this is just going to suck for both of us," Blaine interrupts.

"Of course. You're right."

"I know I asked. I wasn't thinking," Blaine says, reaching across the table to thumb at Kurt's wrist.

"No, it's fine. Really," Kurt says. He takes his hand back and smiles to let Blaine know it really is okay. He takes a few bites of his salad. After a moment he pushes the plate away and says, "I do want to talk about some of it, though. I want it to be okay for me to ask you a few things, to tell you a few things. Because we have this brief time together when we can just tell the truth, and I don't know, _clarify_ things, and I want that. I want clarity, Blaine."

"About the past?"

"Yes."

"Not about the future?"

"No. I think we're pretty clear on the future."

Blaine looks down at his plate and marvels at the way they manage to jump from joy to sadness in a heartbeat. Maybe clearing the air about a few things would help even things out, unravel the tension and give them the freedom to enjoy each other until they can't anymore.

"This isn't some 'Choose Your Own Adventure' game, is it? We can't go back to page thirty-seven and make a different decision to get a different outcome, Kurt."

"Of course not. It's just… don't you want to know things? Haven't you always wondered what I was thinking in... certain situations? I'll give you an example," Kurt says, taking another drink of wine. And then he leans in again and whispers, "That night I caught you jerking off in the communal showers not five minutes after we got back from the midnight showing of _Rocky Horror—"_

Blaine's breath catches in this throat and his cock twitches under his napkin. _Shit._

"You said you were getting off on Rocky in his gold shorts, but were you... were you getting off... on me?"

Kurt bites his lip, and because of this Blaine knows that he's not trying to turn him on; he really does want to know. Except that Blaine _is_ turned on. Incredibly so.

"Yes," Blaine answers.

"I knew it!" Kurt says, sitting back in his seat. He's triumphant, shoulders squared and mouth set in a satisfied smile. He reaches behind him to rummage through his bag, digging out a small tube of lip balm. 

"It's so dry here," Kurt says, like the fact that he just unlocked one of Blaine's secrets is nothing, like his own dick isn't bothered by it one bit. 

He opens his mouth and rubs the waxy substance into his lips. Blaine's eyes follow Kurt's index finger as it rubs first his bottom lip, and then the top. Blaine realizes has to even things out or he's going to be stuck here for hours, eating fucking tiramisu and drinking tawny port until he wants to cry.

"I _was_ thinking of you, Kurt," Blaine starts. He's using his lower register, which gets a raised eyebrow from Kurt but nothing else, so he presses on. 

"I remember exactly which part of you I was thinking about: your thighs. That night you had kind of scooted your ass down in the seat next to me, letting your thighs hang over the seat a bit and part, just slightly. I was so used to your legs, one crossed over the other, and that was bad enough, but that night you scrunched down and relaxed and—"

"It was preemptive ducking, Blaine. I didn't want bread or water in my hair," Kurt says. There's a slight hitch in his speech, and Blaine knows he's getting to him.

"Your jeans, they fit your thighs like a glove, and I kept imagining running my finger along the inside seam, unbuttoning your fly—"

"Uh, Blaine, this isn't really the best time to—"

Kurt is fidgeting now, playing with his fork and looking around nervously, one ear trained to Blaine and the other to the nearest conversations.

"—Pulling down your jeans just a bit, just enough to—"

"I get it—"

"—But not enough to uncover your thighs. And then I would kneel down, and feel the denim straining over your thighs as I dipped my face between your legs—"

"Gloria!"

Kurt is breathing heavily now, glaring at Blaine with a smile in his eyes. He was too loud, calling their server over, but neither of them seem too worried about it. Without a word from Kurt, Blaine has his wallet out before Gloria arrives at the table.

"Everything okay?" she asks.

"Perfect. Can we get our entrées to go, please?" Kurt asks, his voice strained.

Gloria looks confused, but agrees and rushes off to the kitchen, Blaine's credit card in hand. 

"Do we have to wait for the damn food?" Blaine asks. "We can order room service."

They look at each other, and then back at Gloria's retreating form, and then at each other again. In a flash they're both up and out of their chairs, making a beeline for the bar.

"Do you run the cards? I need to sign. Can I sign?" Blaine asks the bartender.

They're out of Il Piatto in three minutes flat, walking briskly up Marcy Street, toward the Eldorado Hotel.

"I hate that I can't just hail a cab in this town," Kurt says. 

Blaine has his hand on the small of Kurt's back, and he's not trying to rush him, he really isn't, because they're only a few blocks away, but he does give him a little push. Just a tiny one. And then his hand is on Kurt's ass.

_Oh God, Kurt's perfect, perfect, perfect ass._

He needs it. He needs to see it, and touch it, and taste it and fill it.

Kurt groans. Blaine reaches around and palms Kurt's cock through his jeans as they walk.

"Blaine! Fuck!" Kurt bats Blaine's hand away. "Are you kidding me right now? I am not coming in these jeans in front of all of these tourists!"

"Sorry, sorry. I don't... I've never done that before. I don't know what—"

"Just keep walking."

Blaine knows Kurt is just frustrated with the four blocks between them and their hotel, at their lack of wings, at their inability to teleport directly to Kurt's bed. Or his. Maybe his. 

They're both rock hard and finding it difficult to walk quickly, so Blaine takes Kurt's hand and gives into the stroll. But not a minute later he's sliding his hand up Kurt's arm, down his back, under his shirt, and into the back of his jeans, trying to get at that perfect, perfect, _perfect_ ass.

"Jesus, Blaine! Go. Go to the other side of the street," Kurt demands.

"What? No."

"You're like a fucking animal, Blaine, and I'm good with it. _Believe me,_ I am, but you can't keep your gorgeous hands off my ass or my cock, so we need to be separated. Like unruly children," Kurt says.

"Or horny teenagers."

"Whatever. Go."

Kurt folds his arms and waits until Blaine crosses to the other side of San Francisco Street. Blaine turns to face him, holding his hands out wide and says loud enough for Kurt and several bystanders to hear, "Really, Kurt? Really? This is silly."

"Just walk!"

They mirror each other as they walk, sneaking glances, trying to keep up with each other. Kurt's hands are in his pockets, and Blaine wonders if Kurt can feel the throbbing of his own cock through the fabric. He wants to _be_ Kurt's hand, his pockets, the boxer briefs he knows Kurt is wearing. Blaine stops for a moment to steady himself and sees he's steps from the Starbucks, where just this morning he made the decision to give in to this beautiful thing.

Across the street, Kurt stops and waits. When Blaine finally gathers his wits, he falls into step with him. Blaine picks up the pace, and Kurt follows. They both stop at parallel curbs, waiting for two lazy cars to slide by, and that's when they both turn to look at each other in the same moment. Their eyes lock, and then they are walking fast, the Eldorado in sight, taking their eyes off of each other only long enough to make sure they don't run straight into a pole. Blaine is eye-fucking Kurt from _across a street_ and Kurt is giving it right back to him. The energy between them is tight. Crackling. Bright.

They're almost running when they reach the steps of the hotel, taking two at a time and bursting through the heavy lobby doors as if the doors were fakes, as if they were paper. They don't touch; people know them here. Blaine slows, eyes still on Kurt, as they make their way to the main elevators.

As they pass the front desk a clerk calls out, "Mr. Hummel, I have a message for you—" but Kurt keeps walking, eyes focused straight ahead. Tapping his foot, he pushes the "UP" button three times too many. Blaine wants to say something, anything, but he's afraid it will be like a match to gasoline, so he keeps quiet.

In the elevator, he wants to push Kurt up against the wall, shove his knee between Kurt's thighs and let Kurt grind down on him until he can't help but come in his jeans. But he settles for standing one inch apart, intertwining fingers, as they both watch the numbers light up like a slow-motion replay. First floor. Second. Third. _Fourth._ It's only when the elevator dings and the doors fly open that Blaine realizes they've both been holding their breath.

Kurt is shaking, so he hands Blaine his key card and with one swipe they're in, back in the same hallway where they fucked the night before. Blaine grabs Kurt's ass before the door closes, and Kurt whines, "Please let me get to the bed."

They're stripping now, a trail of clothes and shoes and underwear behind them. Kurt pushes Blaine down onto the bed and crawls on top of him, straddling his thighs. Blaine bucks up, looking for anything, but Kurt leans down and stills him with a brush of his fingers through his curls. He touches Blaine's cheek, gentle and soft, and then sits back up. There is silence then, like earlier at the restaurant, like the last minutes in Kurt's apartment before Blaine left for Europe, like the first time they woke up together in Blaine's dorm room, still in their uniforms, hazy and at a loss as to why any of their rules or boundaries mattered.

"This is going to kill us, you know," Kurt says, pushing his thumb into Blaine's mouth.

Blaine nips at Kurt's thumb. He whispers, "Shh. Shh." 

Kurt pushes two fingers in now, letting Blaine suck and bite and suck and bite until they're both moaning.

"Let me ride you," Kurt says.

Blaine pulls Kurt's fingers from his mouth and says, "God, yes."

Kurt lifts up a bit and reaches two wet fingers around behind him. Blaine wants to see. He has to see. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabs the lube and sets it on his own belly. "I want to watch. _Please."_

Kurt palms the lube, climbs off of Blaine and says, "Switch. I need to lean against something."

Moments later Blaine is at the edge of the bed, facing Kurt, one hand holding him up, one hand on his dick. Kurt is up against the headboard, thighs spread wide on display, two lubed-up fingers pumping in and out of his ass. He groans and adds a third finger, never taking his eyes off of Blaine.

Blaine asks, "Is this where you were... last night... before—?" 

"Yes," Kurt squeaks between pants.

Blaine inches closer and stares at Kurt's fingers, his hand, the flexing of his thigh muscles as he readies himself for Blaine's cock. "You were thinking of me?"

"Yes. Yes. But I couldn't—"

Kurt cries out and Blaine watches his body contract for a moment, and then he's back at it, working his fingers in deeper, stretching, pushing.

"Couldn't what, baby?"

Kurt looks startled at the endearment, but doesn't object. "I couldn't get off. I tried. I tried so hard I actually cried."

_Would I call him baby? Or honey? Or sweetheart? Would I call him darling, or beautiful, or love? If we had a thousand days, if we had forever, would I give him secret, sweet names that twist his insides when I whisper them in his ear? Would I have a look, just for him, a look that told him it was time to go, time to leave this party and get lost in each other until the world's protests grow loud enough for us to hear?_

Blaine finds the last condom from the night before. He slips it on and then reaches over and grabs Kurt's wrist, pulling his fingers out with a gentle tug. Kurt wipes the leftover lube on Blaine's dick and pushes Blaine back on the bed. He straddles him again, placing Blaine's hands on his thighs.

"Why couldn't you get off?"

Kurt places his own hands on top of Blaine's and leans back a bit, pressing down. He lets Blaine's cock brush against his entrance and says, "Because it wasn't you."

Blaine leans up as far as he can go, and Kurt meets him halfway. Kurt's lips are warm and firm and taste like Prosecco. He hangs on to Kurt's waist for support as he fucks his tongue into Kurt's mouth and then it's hands in hair and little moans and cock against cock and he never ever wants it to end. Never.

When Kurt can't wait anymore he pushes Blaine back on the bed again, positions himself over Blaine's cock and sinks down, down, down. He holds still, eyes closed, and they wait.

"Remember the graduation party?" Blaine asks, trying to keep still.

"Which one?"

"The Warbler party. At Nick's house. You invited everyone from McKinley," Blaine says, thumbs digging into Kurt's inner thighs.

"Yeah. That was fun," Kurt says, resting his hands on top of Blaine's and pressing in, willing him to grip tighter, tighter, tighter.

"You got a bit drunk and... God...shit, Kurt... you did that dance with Tina and Brittany," Blaine says, his voice soft and desperate.

"Single Ladies?"

"Right. That's the one."

Blaine feels Kurt relax around him, but still he waits.

_I'll wait forever for Kurt._

_Wait. What?_

"What about it?" Kurt asks. He tilts a bit, sinking down even further, and lets out a low whine.

"Were you doing it for me? Was the dance for me?"

Kurt opens his eyes and looks down, a sweet smile on his face. "Yes."

"Do it again."

"Do what again?"

"The dance. Now. On my cock."

Kurt sucks in a breath, flashes Blaine a wicked smile and starts moving his hips in slow, tight circles. His muscle control is nothing short of amazing. He picks up the pace but keeps a steady rhythm as he grinds down and lifts up a bit, returning to his circles each time he bottoms out.

"Fuck, that's good. Yeah. That's it."

"Is this what you wanted? I saw you and Jeff watching me. Your eyes were glued to my hips, and my ass. Were you imagining me riding you like this? Even then?"

"Yes! Fuck."

Kurt plays with his own nipples, pinching and twisting, and it drives Blaine absolutely mad. He thrusts up, meeting Kurt as he slams down, and they're good together in all the ways he knew they would be, and in ways he never imagined.

Kurt's riding him hard now, whispering lyrics every so often.

_"I need no permission, did I mention, don't pay him any attention."_

Kurt is in his own world and Blaine knows he's close, so close, so he thrusts harder and gets to work on Kurt's cock. Hips swiveling, ass pressing down and lifting up, thighs trembling, Kurt is so beautiful Blaine can barely breathe.

_"'Cause you had your turn, but now you gonna learn what it really feels like to miss me."_

Kurt tenses up and Blaine lets go and they come, following each other like two singers in a round, Blaine's _fuck, fuck, fuck_ followed by Kurt's high-pitched _oh, oh, oh, oh, yeah, more, oh, oh, yes, yes._

Kurt collapses on Blaine. Blaine, loose-limbed and moments from sleep, wraps his arms around Kurt's back and holds him there, dick still inside.

"Don't pull out," Kurt whispers into Blaine's chest. "Let's just lie here, for days, until they find us shriveled up from lack of food—"

"Hey, you started it," Blaine teases, nipping at Kurt's earlobe.

"No, seriously," Kurt says. "Just stay. Stay in me forever."

****

Kurt is admiring a [table base with deep curves](http://www.tomfaulkner.co.uk/capricorn-oval-dining-table_2) at its center. It looks like an exaggerated, angular hourglass. He runs his hands along the sides: it's metal, probably steel, and it feels familiar, like touching the '68 Aston Martin Vantage his Dad restored for Grant Anderson the summer before his senior year. He looks for markings, any clue that will help him find the designer of this gorgeous piece. He has to have it.

As he caresses the base, he imagines it in the homes of various clients, in his apartment, as the chef's table at the new restaurant opening he'll start on after the holidays. He wants to ask the artist who made it to teach him everything he knows. Or she. It could be a she, but somehow Kurt knows a man designed this, made this with his tools, his hands, the muscles in his back, the beauty in his heart.

He feels a hand snake up the inside of his thigh _—When did I get naked?—_ and squeeze. He senses someone behind him, someone important, someone who could change everything.

His pulse quickens and when he whispers, "Love, I know it's you—" his voice surprises him. It booms and echoes back to him, like he's standing inside a bell. 

The hand squeezes again, and then it's all feather-light touches, brushing up his belly, over his nipples, down his chest and back again. In the distance he hears someone call his name, but he can't stop looking at the metal base, as if it is somehow connected to the hand, to the caress, to the love.

He hears a phone ring. It's a foreign sound, not his cell. He ignores it, covers the hand with his own, and now he's sure he feels someone breathing behind him. The ringing stops, starts up again moments later.

Suddenly Kurt is awake, in his hotel room, no table base to be found. He was dreaming of furniture again, and something else, _someone_ else, a hand—

"Make it stop—" Blaine mumbles into the space between Kurt's shoulder blades. Kurt shifts in Blaine's arms and pushes him back flat against the mattress as he reaches across his chest to the nightstand.

He picks up the phone, but before he can spit out a greeting a voice says, "You're in trouble."

Instantly alert, Kurt rolls halfway onto Blaine for a better reach, his mind racing with thoughts he never imagined he would have.

_Who saw us? How much do they know? Who else knows? Will they tell Paul? How could they possibly know anything? Wait—_

"Who is this?" Kurt asks.

"It's your fucking client."

_Oh. Damn._

"Deidre. Hi."

Relieved, Kurt relaxes and wiggles so his body is flush with Blaine's. Eyes still closed, Blaine wraps his arms around Kurt and pulls tight, cracking his back. Kurt's on alert now but still melts a little, his body slack. 

"Wow," he exclaims.

"Wow? _Wow?_ You didn't answer your cell last night, so I left a fucking message for you with that useless idiot at the desk. _Gawd,_ his FACE! Bastard prick. He wouldn't tell me which room you're in. Can you believe those assholes? I'm _paying_ for the fucking room, fucking tell me the goddamn room number."

Kurt offers up a silent thank you to the Eldorado Hotel's policy manual and then snaps to attention. "Wait, did you say _'his face?'_ Are you in the hotel?"

"Yes I'm in the fucking hotel, Kurt. What's your room number?"

"I'm in 415," Kurt replies, regretting it immediately. And before he can ask Deidre if they could just meet in the lobby, he hears a click and then a loud, annoying dial tone.

"Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit!"

Kurt tries to wiggle off of Blaine, slapping at his hips to get him to move. "Get up, get up, get up!"

Blaine reaches out to still Kurt's hands, grabs his wrists in a tight hold, and then opens his eyes. He speaks in even tones: "Stop. Breathe. Explain."

"My client, Deidre, she's on her way to the room. Why did I give her my room number? It's you and your face and your body and _your face._ You distract me! She'll be here in seconds, Blaine! We have to get up," Kurt says, trying to ignore Blaine's solid grip, the rise and fall of his chest, his drowsy, soft expression.

"Just put on a robe, answer the door and don't let her in. Tell her you need five minutes," Blaine reasons.

Kurt laughs and wrenches his hands free. "You have no idea, Blaine. No idea." 

Kurt hops off the bed and struggles into his discarded jeans. He jumps up and down as he tries to wedge himself into the jeans that went on so easily the night before. Well, _more easily._

Blaine stares at him and laughs, cheeks pink and lips swollen. "This is awesome."

"Shut up."

"Would you like some help? Or did you want to just keep jumping?"

"Ugh! All of that salt and booze and... fuck!"

"—'Cause I like the jumping—"

"Why? Why don't I think before I speak?" Kurt says, stopping himself from falling back onto the bed. "And why did I let you talk me into nachos _—nachos!—_ and champagne? Who drinks champagne with nachos, Blaine? Hmm? Who?"

"We do."

"I _don't,_ Blaine. Or I didn't. Shit," Kurt says, still trying to wiggle into his jeans.

"Our choices were limited. We didn't stop fucking until after midnight, and by then—"

"What is happening to me? Nachos. Cheating on my perfectly respectable boyfriend. No sleep. Lying to my perfectly respectable boyfriend. Nachos. _Nachos,_ Blaine—"

"Perfectly respectable, huh? That's hot."

"We're not doing that," Kurt says, still trying to twist into his jeans.

"Right. That was rude," Blaine agrees, reaching out to fondle Kurt's ass. "So perfect. And by the way, he's your fiancé."

"That's what I said," Kurt insists. "Isn't it?"

"No."

"Well I meant that. _Fiancé._ WHY AREN'T YOU MOVING?"

"Don't panic. You don't have to let her in, you know," Blaine says.

Kurt glares at Blaine, but Blaine just smiles up at him, his hand reaching out again. "Kiss?"

Jeans finally on, Kurt slips on a shirt and starts pulling on Blaine's hand. "Get up! You have to hide."

"I have to _what?"_

Kurt lets go of Blaine's hand and lifts the duvet up to look under the bed. "Shit! The frame is too low, there's no way you'll fit under the bed—"

"Like I would get under there anyway—"

"Why not? You like to jump _on_ furniture. Why not crawl under it?"

Blaine sits up and watches Kurt flit about the room, picking up condom wrappers and clutching Blaine's clothes to his chest. "Is this a fight? Are we fighting? Because if we are fighting, I should probably tell you that I'm really turned on right now—"

"Blaine!"

Blaine rubs the sleep out of the corner of his eyes, barely moving as Kurt scrambles. "I've seen this before. This is like a bad episode of... something—"

"Are you a sloth? GET UP!"

"And when I get up, where do you want me to go?"

There is a loud knock and Kurt's hands fly to his mouth, smothering his own scream. Blaine starts to giggle and then Kurt's hands are off his own mouth and covering Blaine's. 

"Coming!" he shouts.

Blaine licks Kurt's palm, looks up at him with _those eyes_ and it's all Kurt can do not to cry out, push him back into the bed and do his best to forget all about Deidre Alexander and whatever hell she brought with her.

"Not. A. Word," Kurt whispers, slowly removing his hand from Blaine's mouth. 

He pulls Blaine to his feet, picks up Blaine's jeans, underwear, jacket, shirt and shoes, drags Blaine to the bathroom and pushes him inside.

"Kurt! I can hear you! Open the fucking door!" Deidre shouts from the hallway.

"Shower!" Kurt says, as forcefully as he can manage with his whisper-soft voice. 

Blaine shakes his head, and then Kurt is in the bathroom with him. He tries to yank the linen shower curtain back one-handed, his clothed body pressed up against Blaine's _amazing naked amazing naked naked naked_ self.

Blaine's hands instantly encircle Kurt's waist as he struggles with the curtain. "Let's just stay in here until she gives up," Blaine whispers, his lips ghosting Kurt's cheek.

Kurt gives Blaine a gentle push, and Blaine steps into the shower. Kurt tosses Blaine's clothes at him.

"Really, Kurt?"

"Shh!"

Kurt closes the bathroom door halfway, smoothes down his hopelessly wrinkled clothes and opens the door for Deidre.

"Hey, Deidre. Sorry. I wasn't really awake when you called—"

"You're always up early," she says, pushing past him into the room. 

Deidre Alexander is tiny, blonde, just over five feet tall and, thanks to her liquid diet and endless Pilates sessions, way too skinny. Underneath her impeccable five hundred-dollar dye job and three thousand-dollar ensemble, she is a too-smart-for-her-own-good brunette from Paramus, New Jersey.

Her eyes sweep the room, look him up and down, and before he can interrupt her train of thought she flops down on the unmade bed, the bed where he's had the best sex of his life. He's worried she'll sit in something she really shouldn't, or just smell something she really shouldn't, like sex. Hot, awesome, record-breaking sex.

"Apparently that fucking front door is a life-or-death decision, so I'm here. Get dressed and let's go."

"You flew all the way here because you wanted to pick out a door? I just overnighted you a box of tile for your final sign-off."

"So I'll have Janet overnight them back here," she says. "I like it better when we're looking for tile on 16th Street, together."

"You mean checking out one store and then drinking four Bloody Mary's at The Coffee Shop until I call your car service to take you home?"

"Yeah, that. I just like it better when you're in New York. I missed you. Fuck. Why do you make me say these things?"

"I'm choosing rugs today, Deidre. Antonio and I are driving up to Chimayó. No doors today."

"So I'll come with you."

"So you'll come with me. Great. Why not?"

"Get dressed, already. I'll just flip through the channels," Deidre says.

Kurt winces as he watches her search for the TV remote in his rumpled bedding. What if she finds the wet spot? What if there's more than one wet spot?

Then he remembers: There is _definitely_ more than one wet spot.

"Deidre, stop. I'm not that friend, okay? I'm not going to get dressed in front of you and let you look at my ass and dish with you about all of your former men and listen to you tell me how you can't orgasm on Vicodin. Just give me an hour and I'll meet you in the lobby—"

"Forty-five minutes."

"Fine. Forty-five minutes."

When Deidre stands to leave Kurt lets out a sigh of relief he hopes goes unnoticed, but he panics when she says, "I have to pee," and pushes open the bathroom door.

"No! Deidre!"

"What the fuck, Kurt?"

Kurt braces himself for the questions, the lashing, the shattering of this private, beautiful thing. He hopes Blaine has clothes on, at least.

"You scared the shit out of me! It's not that messy, Jesus!"

Kurt peeks around Deidre into the bathroom. Thankfully, Blaine is hiding behind the shower curtain.

"Just, can you use your room, Deidre? I'm sort of private—"

"I'm not staying here. I'm up at Ten Thousand Waves, where I can get a proper facial and some fucking peace. I need to pee. I'll do it with the fucking door open, I don't care. So if you don't want to see my Brazilian, just keep standing there," Deidre says, marching into the bathroom.

Mortified, Kurt looks down at the carpet as he slowly closes the door behind her, sending silent, urgent messages to Blaine: _Quiet as a mouse. I'm so sorry. Quiet as a mouse. Please don't be mad. Quiet as a mouse._

When did his life become a bad rom-com, complete with (gorgeous) secret lovers hiding in bathrooms? And nachos?

He wants to listen at the door, but that's just beyond creepy, so he tries to spray the sex out of the room with a few spritzes of the latest Tom Ford cologne. 

Kurt holds himself very still, bracing himself for Deidre's scream. After three minutes, which feels like three hours, his mind starts racing.

_What if she finds out? She can probably tell I've had someone in the room. But would she even care? She's not exactly a walking example of moral fortitude. Maybe she'll let it be our secret... and hold it over me for the rest of my life, forcing me to remodel one Southwestern monstrosity after another. Maybe even in Texas._

Kurt shudders and sits down on the bed, legs crossed, his foot bouncing nervously. He'd bite his nails if he could find a decent manicurist in Santa Fe to fix the damage. The toilet flushes. No screaming yet. The faucet turns on. Still no screaming. The faucet turns off. Still nothing. 

Finally Deidre pushes the door open and says, "You've got forty-one minutes. Don't be late. I'm already bored."

And with that she opens the door to his room and leaves without a backward glance. Kurt can't _believe_ they got away with it.

"I can't _believe_ we got away with that!" he exclaims, racing into the bathroom.

Blaine pulls back the shower curtain. He's in his boxers now, his clothes and shoes in a pile in the bathtub, arms folded.

"She peed, Kurt. She peed in the bathroom. With me. In the bathroom."

"Oh my God, Blaine! I'm so sorry! I didn't know what to do!"

Blaine is clearly pissed. It reminds Kurt of that time David pantsed Blaine while he was dancing on the Council table during a particularly crazy rehearsal. They were rehearsing "Moves Like Jagger" for sectionals, all of them in workout attire, and David suddenly came up behind Blaine and pulled down his hunter green sweatpants. If looks could kill, David wouldn't have made it to graduation.

Kurt has never been able to take Blaine's pissy look seriously; it just looks so wrong on his face. Sure, he'd seen him genuinely angry—after he found out that David Karofsky threatened Kurt's life. And during that infamous dinner, when Blaine and his father had argued about his father's refusal to stop donating to politicians with homophobic policies, even after Blaine practically begged him to do so. 

And there was that time the former members of New Directions (and Blaine) met up at a club in New York, each visiting from their respective colleges. Blaine discovered Caleb, Kurt's first boyfriend, "kissing" another guy, and pushed him out of the bathroom, past their table, out of the bar and onto the street. 

It took Blaine forever to come back inside, and when he finally slid in next to Mike, he looked like he'd seen a ghost. Everyone tried to get Blaine to tell them what he and Caleb had talked about, but they never could pry more than, "I'm so sorry, Kurt," out of him. He looked _really_ angry, then.

But this isn't angry Blaine. This is super-annoyed, put out Blaine. And it is hilarious.

Within seconds, Kurt is doubled over laughing—at Blaine's expression, at the absurdity of the morning, at the reality of their situation. It's another one of Blaine's "aerial" moments, but this time the image of the two of them, standing in this bathroom, in this swank Southwestern hotel, in this tiny, dusty, ancient little freakshow of a city, is somehow hysterically funny.

"Not. Funny."

"Come on, Blaine," Kurt says, still laughing. "You never peed in the same room with one of your girlfriends? They're always following me into the men's room at clubs because the line to the women's is too long—"

"That's not the same, and you know it."

Kurt crosses to the tub and runs his arms over Blaine's taut shoulders. "Are you scarred for life now, Blaine? Is that it?" he teases.

"I just... I don't like all of these... shenanigans."

Kurt giggles and kisses Blaine on the mouth, all while trying to get Blaine to unfold his arms. "Shenanigans? You're adorable when you're annoyed. Your inner grandpa comes out."

Blaine finally releases his arms and wraps them around Kurt's back. Standing in the bathtub/shower gives him a two-inch height advantage over Kurt, which Kurt revels in as he rests his head against Blaine's bare chest. He listens to his heart, still beating fast from nerves and total irritation.

Blaine slips one hand up to the back of Kurt's neck and holds his head there, almost cradling Kurt against his chest. It takes him back to the dance that triggered this heavenly mess, to the song that carried them right to the edge, drew their hearts out from separate places of deep slumber and reignited a flame that had been slowly burning for nearly half their lives. Kurt sways a bit, or maybe Blaine is rocking him gently, he's not really sure.

He can hear the echo of Adele's haunting voice, and remembers how she sang them right out of the ache and into something even more dangerous. _Nothing compares, no worries or cares. Regrets and mistakes, they are memories made. Who would have known how bittersweet this would taste?_

Kurt knows he is on a runaway train, and there's no stopping it. He knows Blaine wants him. He knows Blaine loves him, too. But he also loves another, in a way he never loved Kurt and most likely never will. 

He's almost thirty years old, and the single most important lesson he's learned is, life is not black and white. There is so much gray area _—He wants me, my body, my laughter, my touch, he may even love me more or differently than I realize, but I'm not_ his, _I was never his, because if I was ever his, he would have told me so—_ and you have to learn how to live in that gray space, where you can't have it all and everything is complicated. You have to be okay with it, to find happiness in it, even if your heart yearns to hear the words, "It's you, it was always you, and no matter what you do, or say, or decide, no matter how much you change or don't change, it will always be you."

_But I can't think about that now. In this moment, and for a few precious days, I still have Blaine, complicated or not, and that's all that matters._

"I like you flustered," Kurt says finally, kissing one nipple, then the other. "I like you human."

"Can't get more human than us right now," Blaine says. "I just... don't want to be that guy who has to hide in the shower, you know? I don't want us to be _that."_

"But we are... that," Kurt says, burrowing further into Blaine.

"But that's not all we are. It's not like we're two lonely strangers who met in a hotel bar and decided to hook up for a few days. There's miles of us before this, Kurt."

"I know."

Blaine kisses Kurt's forehead and pulls him closer, closer, closer. He whispers in his ear: "Last night you said... you said—"

"Stay inside me forever," Kurt whispers back.

"Yes."

"People want things, Blaine. It doesn't mean those things are actually possible," Kurt says, his sigh heavy with the end that is still days away.

"Are we talking literally or figuratively here, Kurt? Because I'm quite aware of the fact that, as much as the idea appeals to me, I can't actually keep my dick in your ass for all of eternity," Blaine teases.

"Both."

Blaine is quiet for a few moments, then gives Kurt a gentle squeeze and then says, "Okay, Kurt. Okay. Shower?"

"Yes, but just that. I really do have to make it out to Chimayó today and spend tens of thousands of Clint Alexander's dollars on rugs for a house he'll most likely never visit."

"Fun."

"If you say so."

They shower together, taking turns washing each other's backs, hair, thighs, shoulders. They kiss each time they shift positions, never saying a word, just washing and kissing and moving like this is a well-practiced dance, like they've done this everyday thing together for years. Kurt wants, and Blaine wants, and if there were no rugs to buy or songs to record they'd give in again, and again, and again. Instead they wash, and kiss, and caress, and move around each other, behind each other, lean against each other, until they are both clean and warm and buzzing with thoughts of _later, tonight, tomorrow and tomorrow._

After they dry each other off and Kurt starts pulling on a fresh pair of vintage straight jeans, Blaine slides into his "date night" clothes and says, "I have to change and make a phone call. I'll see you tonight?"

"Yes," Kurt says, with a kiss to Blaine's jaw.

Blaine turns to leave and then turns back. "Last night, you were talking in your sleep. What were you dreaming about?"

_A hand. A voice. A love._

"Furniture."

Blaine laughs and kisses him again, this time a bit dirty, and strong, like he's trying to push him over. After a few minutes he pulls his away and says, "I'll call you," and then makes his way to the door.

Kurt watches him go, his jacket draped over his arm, and feels his heart _tilt._ He laughs, remembering his mother's warning whenever he twisted his face into a pout: "Be careful. Your face might stay that way forever." Will his heart stay this way forever, tilted toward someone he cannot have?

Twenty minutes later, he's dressed and coiffed and ready to face Deidre and the day. He's at the elevator with two minutes to spare, not that he's genuinely concerned about being late. His phone rings, and he smiles at the sight of the caller's name.

"Tell me it's not true," Antonio says, before Kurt can say hello.

"It's not true?"

"I'm not her goddamn _servant,_ Kurt—"

"I know, I know. It's just for a few hours—"

"If she pulls anything I will stop the car and _kill_ her, Kurt, with my bare hands—"

"Just—can't you ignore her? I'll keep her occupied, I will. Besides, she'll get sick of rugs and want to come back to Santa Fe to drink and talk trash for hours, so really, it's me that gets the short straw. Not you."

"Kurt—"

"Are you out front?"

"Yes, goddamn it," Antonio says. He hangs up without saying goodbye.

Kurt finds Deidre perched on a bench in front of a large fireplace in the lobby, arguing with someone on the phone; Clint, most likely. He doesn't want to hear one word of what is likely a rant about Antonio, who probably refused to let her come with them today. So he wanders around the lobby, picking up brochures and putting them back down again.

He finds one about Chimayó, the little town where the Ortiz family weaves their highly sought-after rugs. He reads about the chapel there, about the dirt that is supposed to have healing properties, and about the thousands of devout Catholics who make a pilgrimage to Chimayó every Easter, some walking hundreds of miles with wooden crosses on their backs. He doesn't get it—the closest he ever came to a pilgrimage was a visit to Coco Chanel's Paris apartment—but he slips the brochure into his messenger bag anyway. Maybe this trip will help him clear his mind; maybe, even though he doesn't believe, Chimayó will heal his heart before it breaks.

Kurt catches Deidre's eye and points to a large clock on the wall, willing her to get off the phone. When she nods and marches out the front door, cell phone plastered to her ear, he walks over to the front desk and surprises himself when he says, "Hi. I'm Kurt Hummel, in 415. Could I possibly get an extra key card?"

"Certainly Mr. Hummel. Do you have a guest arriving?" the cheerful girl asks.

"Guest? No. I just... well—"

"It's no problem at all, Mr. Hummel," she says, saving him. 

She hands him a key card, which he slips into his wallet. But instead of closing the wallet, he stares for a moment at the edge of the key card peeking out of a pocket, thinking about what it means. If this thing with Blaine, this _affair,_ were something else, if it were true and unfettered, this key card would be a real key, and it would signify a change, a commitment.

If, instead of eleven days, they had a few years, or a lifetime, this would be the point in their relationship when Kurt would hand Blaine a little box with a key to his apartment tucked inside. And he'd say something like, "It's not the key to my heart, because I gave that to you ages ago. It's a key to my everything." And Blaine would smile too big, and press the key into his palm and say, "I'll carry it with me forever." And it wouldn't matter that they were both ridiculously cheesy in their sentiment and optimistic in their promises; it would be a milestone, with the intention of someday having more milestones, bigger milestones, the biggest.

But they'll never have those normal, sweet, breathtaking moments—the first "I love you" without the implied "as a friend, of course;" their first place together, their first "someday" conversation ("Someday, would you like to have children? Someday, would you like to buy a little summer place in Montauk? Someday, would you like to vow to love me in sickness and in health?) There would be no exchange of rings, or promises, or last names. No, this is just a key card so Blaine can let himself in to Kurt's room, so he can wait for him and come and go as he pleases. It's a convenience. That's all.

Closing his wallet, Kurt tries not to think any further about how it could be so much more, or how he's already _had_ so many of those "someday" moments with Paul, or how those other "somedays" are like a popular song played on an out-of tune piano.

Realizing he's been staring at his wallet longer than one would deem normal, he smiles at the girl behind the desk, looks at her name tag and says, "Thank you, Amy."

He's still thinking about key cards, and Paul, and what it all means, when he walks out into the blaring New Mexico sun and gasps at the sight before him. Antonio and Deidre are standing next to his Range Rover, talking to Blaine. _Blaine._ Gorgeous, clean-shaven, sexy-hot Blaine who should be in his room, or on his way to Galisteo, or anywhere but here, really.

Kurt straightens his shoulders, slips on his sunglasses and walks over to the trio. Blaine notices him; his smile is part smirk, part apology, part "help me," but only Kurt would know that. To the rest of the world, Blaine is the picture of composure.

"I ran into Antonio on my way—" Blaine starts.

"He's coming with us," Deidre says.

"Deidre, meet Blaine, my friend—"

"I know who he is. He told me. Best friend. High school. Got it. He's going to keep me awake by telling hilarious, embarrassing stories about you," Deidre says, slipping into the front seat. She shuts the door before Kurt can argue with her.

"You're not coming," Kurt says emphatically.

"I think I am."

"But you have to work—"

"Gretchen texted me. Adele is spending the day with her husband, and since she's not available, Mitch decided to go see his friend in Corrales, so I have nothing else to do anyway," Blaine explains. 

He looks absolutely determined, and Kurt should be happy to spend more time with Blaine, and he _is,_ but not like this. Not with her. And besides, he kind of needed the break from Blaine. Every minute with him eats away at his resolve, and now there is no hope for a reprieve.

"But you said you had to make a phone call—" Kurt starts, and then regrets it. Antonio probably figured they were up to something, and now he has them figured out for sure.

"He, uh, wasn't home," Blaine explains.

"We could use the backup," Antonio says.

"This is _not_ a good idea," Kurt pleads.

"Just let me run inside for a minute. I need to... just hold on, okay?" Blaine says, darting off without waiting for an answer.

Antonio waits until Blaine is inside before he says, "Kurt, I didn't want to say anything yesterday, but—"

"Stop. I can't. I just can't, okay? Can we just, _not?"_

"Whatever you say."

"Thank you," Kurt says, smiling up at him. "You're a good friend."

"Fort Knox, remember?" Antonio says, tipping his hat. "You know I'm going to kill her, right? I know places. They'll never find her body."

"Ugh. Maybe it is a good idea for Blaine to come along. He can charm anyone into submission," Kurt says.

"Apparently," Antonio teases with a wink.

"Shut up."

After Kurt and Antonio get in the car, there is an awkward, too-long silence before Deidre says, "So how come my fucking kitchen still hasn't been painted?"

Kurt groans. He is trying to come up with an answer that will placate Deidre, when she inhales and starts clicking her tongue. She's looking at the hotel entrance; Kurt turns to see Blaine walking toward the car.

"Yes, that man is definitely worth the risk," she says.

"Deidre, _do not_ try to fuck him," Kurt warns.

"Wasn't planning on it. I don't shit where I eat."

Before Kurt can ask her what she means by that, Blaine opens the door and slips into the backseat, next to Kurt.

"Ready when you are."

Kurt thinks Blaine, with this expectant expression on his face, looks like a five-year-old who has just been told he's going to Disneyland.

Antonio starts the car and pulls out. Deidre reaches to fiddle with the radio and he says, "Don't touch that. My car, my music."

She huffs and turns in her seat, and just as Blaine inches his hand over to cover Kurt's, she turns to face them and says, "So, Blaine, now that I've peed in your presence, don't you think we should get to know each other a little bit better?"

"Oh fuck," Kurt says, hiding his face in his hands. Blaine is speechless, his face as white as Kurt as ever seen it. Kurt wants to vomit, to run screaming from the car. Suddenly the trip to Chimayó feels less like a pilgrimage and more like a death march to hell.

Antonio changes lanes and says, "Remember, I know where we can hide the body."

***

After Deidre teases Kurt and begs for details, after Antonio tells her to shut up and turns off the radio, after Kurt bites back at her and squeezes Blaine's hand so tightly it hurts, they settle into a prickly silence. 

As the landscape rolls by, bleached dirt on rolling hills and round, green, short trees that look more like bushes poking up here and there, Blaine silently counts the number of people who know he's having sex with Kurt. Adele. Gretchen, probably. And if Gretchen knows, maybe the entire band. And Mitchell. And if the entire band knows, then maybe friends and acquaintances back in London. Maybe Liam.

He tried to call him this morning, but Liam didn't answer his cell or show up on Skype. So Blaine changed and left his room in search of coffee and a _New York Times_ , something to take his mind off of Liam. And Kurt. And what he might say to Liam _about_ Kurt. 

He doesn't know; he really doesn't. They made a deal, and it was evident, even after last night, and the first night, even after Kurt whispered, _Stay inside me forever_ into Blaine's skin and straight through to his heart, that Kurt had every intention of seeing their deal through. Kurt was settled. Content. This thing between them, would it... _could_ it change that?

 _I'm completely at his mercy. I'll happily take everything he's willing to give me, every scrap. June was right. I_ am _his. But he's not mine. So do I let go of Liam, knowing I'll never have Kurt?_

It's a ridiculous question, for which Blaine doesn't have an answer, so he keeps counting. Adele and Gretchen make two. Deidre. And now Antonio, though Kurt might have already told him. That's four. And the bellhop from last night. That's five.

Blaine looks over at Kurt, who is staring out the window looking at his own set of brown hills and shrubby green trees, and chuckles at the memory of last night. Kurt had lifted his head off of Blaine's chest with a start and said, "We're out of condoms!" Somehow they had both forgotten to buy any, and suddenly the situation became desperate.

"I don't want to get dressed," Blaine said.

"I don't want to move," Kurt replied.

And then Blaine said, "Hold on to me, okay? Don't let go."

He rolled them slowly, careful to stay inside of Kurt, careful not to crush him, until he was on top and could reach the phone on the nightstand. 

After the front desk clerk forwarded him to a bellhop, Blaine said, "I'm in room 415 and I will give you two hundred dollars cash to run out and get me a pack of condoms—"

"Large," Kurt interrupted.

 _"—Large_ condoms. Now. Like, right now,' Blaine said.

"Yes, sir. Right away, sir," the bellhop replied, as if Blaine had asked for a pizza or something. 

Blaine hung up the phone, looked down at Kurt's flushed face and said, "I can't believe I just did that."

And then they both got the giggles and started laughing until they were shaking from it, Blaine with his head buried in the crook of Kurt's neck, each trying not to move too much for fear of hurting the other. Soon it was too much, and they both winced at the pain.

"I have to pull out. I'll come back, I will. Just let me—"

Kurt nodded and Blaine watched his face carefully as he slowly pulled out of him. Blaine pushed a few strands of Kurt's hair back from his face and kissed his forehead. Kurt wrapped his arms around Blaine's neck and pulled him in for a kiss that was all gratitude and heat.

Now, sitting in the back of Antonio's car, Blaine wonders if five people is too many or not enough.

"I said I won't say anything," Deidre pleads.

"You're not getting the story, Deidre. Tell Paul, tell your friends, tell the goddamn gossip queen from hell—"

"Who? Marjorie Willhelm?"

"No. Barbara Davies," Kurt replies.

"Oh, no. I _loathe_ her," Deidre says.

"Who _are_ these people?" Blaine asks.

"Harpies. Or friends. Whatever," Kurt says.

"I hate New York," Antonio says.

"Of course you do. You're just like him, with the horses and the space. All that space," Deidre says.

Blaine is thoroughly confused now. The three of them seem to have their own language, and he's reminded how little he actually knows about Kurt's life now.

"Will you tell me all about it later? After?" Deidre asks, her voice so small she almost sounds contrite. Blaine wonders if she feels badly about calling them out, but he can't really imagine her feeling badly about anything.

"Probably not," Kurt says, arms folded.

They settle into yet another awkward silence as Antonio turns off of the main highway onto a winding, two-lane road. Blaine notices more green in the landscape as the hills come in close and bank them in. The history of the place surrounds them; they pass adobe buildings that appear to be as old as time. They're just twenty minutes outside of Santa Fe, but it feels like they've entered another dimension entirely. Gone are the beautiful iron gates and dripping bougainvilleas adorning well-kept historical homes. Here, they see cars upon cinder blocks and bars over windows and crumbling, ancient walls. Many people struggle here, that much is clear.

"See that house?" Antonio asks, pointing to a small, single-story adobe house that looks just like all of the others. "I met my wife because of a boy who lived there."

They're all content to let Antonio diffuse the tension, so he does. "His name was Jimmy Padilla, and he was gay, but that's really not okay up here, you know?"

Kurt and Blaine look at each other because, yes, they do know.

"Sarah knew him. He came to Alex Marin House when he was twenty, a bit too old for the place, but he had nowhere else to go. He'd been up to Vegas, I think, or maybe it was Reno, trying to be himself and make a go of things in a place where people wouldn't judge him. He never found that place. Instead he got sick. I guess he must have had HIV since he was a kid, which really pisses me off, thinking about what he got into up here, but by the time he made it to Alex Marin House, he had full-blown AIDS."

Blaine takes Kurt's hand and leans into him a bit, listening.

"See, Jimmy never had the money for the drugs or treatment he needed to fend off the virus, so he really didn't have a chance. Maybe he didn't want to live anymore, who knows. Anyway, it was Thanksgiving morning, and my grandmother was in the hospital, recovering from surgery. I came in early to sit with her for a while, and when I left, I ran right into this beautiful girl in the lobby. Sarah. She was crying her eyes out. She said, 'Excuse me,' and I don't know what happened to me, but I knew. I knew right then that she was all I would ever need."

_Excuse me... Excuse me, I'm new here..._

Blaine slides even closer to Kurt, wraps his arm around him and pulls him closer still.

"And I don't know why she thought I was okay to talk to, but all of a sudden she's telling me Jimmy's story, and I'm holding her hand in the waiting room. She tells me she tried get his family to come, that he didn't have much time left, but they kept saying no. I guess they knew he had AIDS, or had been told, but couldn't accept it because that meant he was gay. So they acted like he, I don't know, had a bad flu or something. Like he'd be just fine."

Deidre leans back against the headrest and turns her head toward Antonio. They're all focused on him now, eager to hear the end of his story.

"Sarah kept saying, 'They won't come. Why won't they come?' It broke my heart, it really did. She told me she couldn't leave him alone. She said, 'Nobody deserves to die alone.' And then she thanked me, you know, for letting a total stranger cry on my shoulder, and went back to sit with Jimmy. But I couldn't get her out of my head, or him, so I went up to the nurse's station and asked this girl I knew, Maria, if I could get his address. She shouldn't have done it, but she kind of owed me one, so the next thing I know I'm skipping Thanksgiving and driving out here to Jimmy's parent's place."

"What did they say? Did they come? What happened?" Kurt asks.

"They were sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner, like nothing was wrong, like they didn't have a son dying not half an hour away. I begged them to come. I didn't even know Jimmy and there I was, begging these people I didn't know to come and visit someone I had never met. But they refused."

Antonio is quiet for a moment, and then continues with his story. "I dropped by my mom's and packed up some plates, and then drove back to the hospital. When I walked onto Jimmy's floor, Sarah was holding a phone, I guess maybe getting the courage up to talk to Jimmy's family again. She looked up at me, kind of surprised to see me, and I said, 'They still won't come. I tried, but they won't come.' And then she smiled at me, which I didn't expect. I guess she was happy someone else cared enough about Jimmy to try. And then I sat with them, in his room, and we tried to eat some Thanksgiving dinner and pretend that he had all the time in the world, that he'd get better."

"What happened to Jimmy?" Deidre asked. "When did he die?"

"That night, after I left. Sarah held his hand until the end, wouldn't leave his side," Antonio replied. "And you know what, I couldn't have asked for a better way to meet the love of my life."

"But it's so sad," Kurt says.

"It is, but I met her at the same moment I realized life is precious and short, so I never hesitated. I never pretended not to be interested in her or played games. I just went after her like she was the best thing that ever happened to me, because she was. And Jimmy did that."

They're quiet again, except this time the silence is reverent, for Jimmy. Blaine decides that maybe he loves Sarah; that maybe, even though they only just met, they could be best friends. He vows to make it over to Alex Marin House the first chance he gets. Maybe Kurt would come with him. Maybe they could go tonight.

"This is it," Antonio says, pulling into a parking lot. "There's a little chapel down the hill. It's kind of a tourist thing. Blaine and I will be down there." 

Antonio gets out of the car. Kurt looks up at Blaine with a question in his eyes.

"It's fine. I don't really want to look at rugs, anyway," Blaine says.

"I'll try to be quick."

Blaine watches Kurt and Deidre disappear into a large, whitewashed adobe building and then follows Antonio down a gentle hill, into a little valley. The trees grow tall here, and there's a tiny village, which he assumes is Chimayó. He sees a chapel, with a courtyard in the front and tourists milling around.

"This is a holy place," Antonio says. "People come here for healing. Go through the chapel and into the back room and you'll find offerings, candles and prayer requests and little pictures of people who need something. Inside the room you'll find a hole in the ground. That's holy dirt, or so they say. You can take some. They have little containers, or you can buy a locket or something up at the store over there."

"I'm not Catholic," Blaine says, entranced by the simple beauty of the building.

"Doesn't matter. You can still go in. Unless you're good. Maybe you don't need a miracle," Antonio says. "It never worked for me, anyway. It's just something to do while the two of them argue about color palettes and whatever the hell else they talk about. I'm going to go buy a candle for my grandmother at the store. Do you want to come?"

Blaine eyes the chapel and decides to go with Antonio instead. The store is full of kitsch and postcards and little self-published books about the area. He looks at silver jewelry in glass cases, at woven baskets and little clay dolls. Antonio buys two tall votive candles and then finds Blaine.

"Milagros," Antonio explains, looking at the basket of tiny silver charms next to Blaine's hand. The old woman behind the counter smiles at Antonio knowingly. Blaine is so out of his element here and yet so entranced by it all: the ritual of everything, the sacred quiet, the vibrant colors.

"Miracles?" Blaine asks, remembering his high school Spanish.

"Yes. They're offerings. You see how some of them are shaped like body parts?"

"Yes."

"You choose one that represents that part of you, or someone else's, that needs healing. Then you place it in the candle and leave it at the altar, inside," Antonio explains, gesturing toward the chapel.

Blaine runs his fingers through the bowl of tiny charms and, without thinking, picks out four hearts. He doesn't believe in this, he doesn't. But what does he know about miracles, really? Except that yes, he probably could use a miracle today... or eleven days from now. Or anytime, really. Like, right now, even. _Yes, now would be good._

"I'll take these, and three candles, please," he says, handing a few dollars to the old woman.

They walk to the chapel and slip into the dark room with the other tourists. Antonio dips his fingers in a bowl of holy water at the entrance and crosses himself. The chapel is tiny, handmade, quiet. Antonio stops but does not sit; Blaine waits for him. He notices a poem on the wall and reads it, silently.

_"If you are a stranger, if you are weary from the struggles in life, whether you have a handicap, whether you have a broken heart, follow the long mountain road, find a home in Chimayo."_

After a few moments they walk up to the altar and turn left, through an even tinier door and into a room no bigger than Blaine's en suite bathroom back home in Ohio.

There are votive candles everywhere, milagros of every kind, letters and photos, little stuffed animals offered up in hope or remembrance. He follows Antonio's lead, lining his three candles up next to each other. He places one heart in one candle and lights it in memory of Kurt's mother. He places one heart in the second candle and lights it in prayer for Kurt's father, for his continued good health. And then places the two remaining hearts in the third candle and lights it for two of them, for this love he feels for Kurt, for their hearts. It is a wish, a deep and profound wish for a miracle he can't ask for out loud.

He notices the hole in the dirt floor. People are digging, placing dirt in plastic baggies, in paper cups and small boxes. Antonio hands him a cup and again, Blaine finds himself moving without thinking. Using a small shovel, he digs up a little dirt and places it in the cup. He's overwhelmed by all of the desperation and hope in the air, and the room starts to close in on him.

He doesn't deserve this—this room, this dirt, this place, this moment. He's nothing but a coward; even in finally giving over to his feelings for Kurt, he's a coward. He comes to this moment unclean, burdened by too many betrayals of self, and heart, and friendship, and truth. 

"I have to get out of here," Blaine says suddenly, ducking out of the exit door. He walks out behind the chapel, finds a bench and sits down. He looks out at green, so much green it's startling. There is life here—trees, and grass, and more trees dotting the creek bed, now dry in the summer heat. 

Blaine sticks his fingers into the dirt in his cup. It's just dirt, but in his hands it somehow it feels like so much more. The feel of it grounds him, and just like that, he knows what he must do. Maybe it's Antonio's story about Jimmy Padilla and the fragility of life, echoing in his heart; maybe it's the landscape, the valley dipping from high desert into this tiny oasis; maybe it's the Santuario, the dirt healing not his wounds, but his regrets. 

Whatever it is, Blaine has never felt more sure of anything in his life: he will break things off with Liam, and with every other man who tries to be his everything. He will spend his life saying "no," waiting for Kurt to say "yes."

When Antonio finds him, Blaine says, "You lit two candles."

"One for my grandmother and one for Jimmy."

They sit together for an hour or so, staring out at the green and brown, watching tourists order flavored tortillas from a nearby stand. They exchange easy conversation and benign facts, until they hear the fast-paced walk of two New Yorkers approaching behind them.

"We have rugs! Can we go?" Kurt says, eyeing them warily.

"I'm ready. You ready, Blaine?" Antonio asks.

"Yes. Absolutely."

Antonio turns the radio on for the drive back and Blaine listens to Deidre and Kurt talk about tile and glassware and a party they both have to attend in October. The largest rug is too big to fit all the way in the trunk, so part of it rests on top of the seat behind them, between him and Kurt. Blaine wants to curl into Kurt, kiss his neck and earlobes and tell him what he plans to do, but the rug is in the way.

"Kurt tells me you work with Adele," Deidre says, shaking him out of his thoughts.

"I do in fact work with Adele, yes."

"You write songs?"

"Sometimes. I used to," Blaine says.

"He writes beautiful songs," Kurt insists.

"Sing something for me," Deidre commands, because she is just that gauche.

"Antonio's car, Antonio's music," Blaine quips.

"Hey, I'll turn it off if you want me to," Antonio says. "Or not."

"It's been a long time since I wrote anything," Blaine stalls.

"Kurt, I've never heard you sing. Do you remember any of his songs?" Deidre asks.

Blaine wonders how Kurt could possibly remember any of the songs he wrote in high school and college. He remembers Kurt poring over his journal, reading the lyrics in blue ink bleeding through and onto the back of the page. That was years ago, a decade ago. How could he remember? Surely he doesn't—

[ **PRESS PLAY** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KxwTWWQKRqA)

But Kurt is singing, that song he wrote his first year at Berklee, before he let other boys in, before they grew up, before he gave up.

_"You've got the kind of beautiful makes the boys want to give up running all around."_

It's amazing and perfect and Blaine wonders if he's ever actually _heard_ Kurt sing this song before. He remembers singing it himself in the showcase, remembers Kurt and Rachel's rapt expressions as he strummed and sang his heart out, hoping Kurt would understand that he could sing what he could not say.

Kurt's voice is otherworldly, haunting, pure. With the rug in the way, Blaine can't look at him; so he slides his hand across the seat and places it on Blaine's thigh. They haven't said a word to each other about this morning, or this day, or about why Blaine is holding a paper cup half-full of dirt. But somehow this is all that needs to be said, this song. And somehow this is all that needs to be done, this hand on his thigh.

Kurt sings, and the words, _his own words,_ are like a revelation to him. He barely remembers writing them, but he definitely remembers the feelings that inspired him to write the song.

_"One life is all we ever get, and all we ever give up for it in return is all of the ones we might have been, just one kind of beautiful each in our turn."_

When they pass by Jimmy's house, they all turn to look; and, each in their own time, Antonio first, turn back to look at the road ahead of them. Blaine takes Kurt's hand again.

_Will I always take it? Will I always reach for his hand, wrap it up in my own, hold it tightly, again and again? Will I always have the chance to hold it and never let go?_

He lets Kurt's voice wash over him, lets a tear fall, and then another, silently, so silently, like he's sitting in the Santuario, praying.

_"You are, true improbability. You're the proof of when they say, you never know what's going to be."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story about Jimmy Padilla is true, though I changed his name, and Antonio does not exist. It was my girl who held his hand that Thanksgiving, and I never forgot the look on her face when she came home from the hospital to say he'd died, and his family never came.
> 
> On a lighter note, Dan Wilson wrote "All Kinds," and it was only after I'd decided on the song that I learned he co-wrote "Someone Like You." Nice coincidence, right?


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for fic overall: Infidelity, profanity, graphic sex, angst.
> 
> Another "PRESS PLAY" moment in this chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Mimsy for proofreading and coding!
> 
> Click here to see Adele's concert [setlist](http://iconicklaine.tumblr.com/post/16636609960).
> 
> Also, if you go into the "sly+scrapbook" tag on my Tumblr, iconicklaine, you'll find other SLY-related stuff. Thanks for reading!

Between Chimayo and the drive to her work-in-progress house, Deidre Alexander used the words "fuck," "fucking," or "fucker" a total of twenty-seven times.

Blaine counted.

While watching the three men unload obscenely expensive, beautifully crafted rugs she pulled out the words "bastard," and the oh-so-eloquent _"cocksucking_ bastard," several times (in reference to her husband).

Tensions are high now, all four of them still reeling from the emotions of the day. Antonio heaves exasperated sighs and glares at Deidre while she continues to talk trash and hurl obscenities at every single little thing, living or dead.

Blaine does his best to ignore it, choosing instead to watch Kurt move, make decisions, change his mind, give in to impatience, contemplate, hum and softly sing what sounds like an old Florence & The Machine song under his breath. Kurt mediates, keeping Antonio and Deidre at least five feet apart. Every so often he smiles apologetically at Blaine and mouths, "Sorry," or, "It's fine if you want to just go." Each time he does this, Blaine just shrugs his shoulders like none of it matters and shakes his head. He's not going _anywhere._

They're hours into the rug relocation/optimal placement dance when Antonio quietly invites Kurt and Blaine to join him for Friday night dinner at Alex Marin House. Deidre must have supersonic hearing, because almost immediately she sidles up behind him and says, "Are you fucking serious, Kurt? I thought we were going out. Haven't we spent enough time with this judgmental asshole? You know he hates me. His wife will hate me even more, because that's what they do, jealous, prissy motherfuckers—"

Apparently, the word "motherfucker" is the last straw.

"That's it!" Antonio shouts, lunging for Deidre. She ducks behind Kurt; Blaine does his best to hold Antonio back. It's a bit like trying to wrangle a charging bull, but Blaine is strong, and Antonio doesn't really have it in him to hurt anyone, anyway. He just wants to scare the living crap out of her.

Kurt turns to face Deidre and grabs hold of her upper arms. "Now you listen to me, crazy girl. I'm going to tell you something that could probably cost me this contract, and many future contracts, but I have to do it, because otherwise I might slap you. And despite my commitment to pacifism, if I slap you, it will hurt. It will hurt like a _bitch._ And I don't want to hurt you, Deidre. I don't. I just want you to zip it. Zip it for all good people. Just bottle up all of your pain and keep it to yourself for one night like a good little socialite. Drown your neuroses in booze and pills, I don't care. Just shut. The fuck. Up."

Kurt's speech leaves Deidre stunned and quiet, Antonio amazed, and Blaine so turned on he has to literally _step back,_ away from Kurt, so as not to maul him right there on Deidre's clay-colored rug.

"Antonio, Blaine and I would love to join you and Sarah for dinner with the kids. Right, Blaine?"

"What? Oh, yes. Of course. We'd be delighted," Blaine replies, staring at Kurt's ass. He can't help it—Kurt has been bending over and crouching down and scooting across the floor _for hours._

"And Deidre, if you can tame your rage for a few hours, you are welcome to join us. Otherwise, I'll see you tomorrow."

"Only if he promises to be nice to me," Deidre says, in a soft voice.

"Kurt, are you serious with this?" Antonio is genuinely angry now, and Blaine wonders what Kurt is thinking, inviting her along.

"I'm not going where I'm not wanted," Deidre says.

"Good. You're not wanted," Antonio barks.

"Antonio, stop. It's fine. She'll behave," Kurt says, starting for the door. "And besides, if you just put out a swear jar, Sarah will probably have half her annual budget covered by the time we get to dessert."

Antonio stomps off, brushing past Kurt on his way to the car. Kurt motions for Deidre and Blaine to follow, and then shuts off the lights and locks the door behind them. He walks in step with Blaine and says in a hushed tone, "They're like bratty, neglected children."

"Will I get you alone tonight? Or are you on mom duty?" Blaine asks.

Kurt laughs and says, "Tonight, you get me any way you want me."

Blaine feels like he's seventeen, all hormones and nervous anticipation. How does Kurt _do_ this? They were wrapped up in each other not fifteen hours ago, and still Blaine is almost desperate with want.

Blaine stops Kurt before he can slide into Antonio's backseat, and whispers in his ear: "I've been hard for you for hours. I won't make it through dinner."

Kurt kisses Blaine firmly on the mouth, causing Blaine to lose his balance. Kurt reaches behind and steadies him just in time, his hand on Blaine's lower back.

"You have a rental car, right? So we'll take your car and leave early," Kurt offers.

From the front seat Deidre says, "I can hear you, you know."

Forty-five minutes later, it's official: Kurt is driving him insane. Brushing up against him during Sarah's tour of Alex Marin House, resting his hand on Blaine's ass while they study the photo mural residents made for their rec room, eye-fucking him unabashedly while Blaine tunes his guitar. If they hadn't accepted Antonio's dinner invitation and promised to sing some songs with the kids who lived there, Blaine would have tied Kurt to a bed hours ago.

Blaine is singing a stripped-down version of the summer's biggest Top 40 hit when Kurt excuses himself from the group of enthralled teenagers and makes his way to the kitchen. Just before he disappears he turns to give Blaine one last look, a slow burn that lasts eight full seconds, causing Blaine to fuck up the song. Kurt giggles and ducks into the room to join the other adults.

He answers a few questions about Adele, about London, about the music business. He's grateful Kurt is out of earshot when Erick, a tall boy no more than sixteen with platinum blond hair, asks, "What's your boyfriend like?"

"He's cute. Sweet. Generous," Blaine replies, trying to end the Q&A as quickly as possible before he forgets and adds, _"But he's not the one, not by a mile. Let me tell you about the man who IS the one. He's strikingly beautiful. He's brilliant and gifted, with an obscene amount of talent. He's layered and brave and his touch is addictive, like scorching desire and coming home all at the same time. No, my boyfriend is not the man of my dreams. The man of my dreams is standing in your kitchen."_

He's saved from himself and the prying questions of excited teenagers by Sarah's call from the kitchen. "Kitchen duty, you're up. Who's cooking?"

Erick stands and holds his hand out to a shorter boy, also blond—Wyatt, maybe? They shuffle into the kitchen just as Sarah, Antonio, Deidre and Kurt walk out and sit down at the large dining room table.

Blaine excuses himself from the other kids, but leaves his guitar for them to "mess around" with. He pulls up a chair and Kurt scoots his own chair closer to him, takes his hand under the table and rests both of their hands in Blaine's lap. It reminds him of David's bachelor party, except this time, there's no desperation, no pretense.

"So this concert—" Deidre starts, looking at Sarah.

"Oh, you should join us! Antonio's sister was planning on coming, but her daughter has the flu, so she can't make it," Sarah says, ignoring Antonio's warning glare.

Blaine was right about Sarah: He just loves her. She is patient, and kind, and dedicated; and if he weren't so eager to get Kurt alone and naked, he'd want to sit and talk with her for hours, and then make plans to do the same thing again, very soon. He can see why Antonio is still so deeply in love with her—she glows with a light that only people who live in their purpose possess. She is not yearning for anything; she's right where she's supposed to be.

"I'm sure you couldn't possibly find me a ticket," Deidre says, in an affected tone.

"No, like I just said, I have an extra ticket in our row—"

"I'm sure it would be impossible to find a seat for me. Unless you have a VIP ticket. You probably have at least _one_ VIP ticket left, but I'm sure it's very expensive." Deidre says.

"I don't understand... you can have the ticket—"

"How much did you say your VIP tickets are again? Twenty-five thousand?" Deidre pulls out her checkbook and starts writing, her handwriting the swift, strong strokes of someone accustomed to spending boatloads of cash on a regular basis.

Sarah gasps and Antonio's mouth falls open. Kurt reaches across the table to take Sarah's hand. "She's trying to make a donation, Sarah, but she doesn't want anyone to know she has a soft heart underneath her trash mouth and thick skin."

When Sarah jumps up and hugs her, Deidre's arms reluctantly reach around and hug Sarah back, and Blaine is stunned to see a small, genuine smile on Deidre's face. Maybe she's doing it for Jimmy. Or her guilty conscience. Or because she wants to help these kids. Whatever the reason, Blaine dislikes her a little bit less—though, unlike sweet Sarah, he cannot imagine ever being real friends with her.

Dinner is strange and wonderful. Not because the kids are boisterous and inquisitive and show off like peacocks _—Were we like this, once upon a time, in our navy blue blazers and expensive shoes?—_ but because the grownups are treating them like a real couple. They don't bat an eye when Kurt leans in close and whispers in Blaine's ear, "Look at Erick and Wyatt. Aren't they darling? So in love." They smile knowingly when Blaine offers to trade plates with Kurt so Kurt can have more chicken and Blaine can have more pasta. And when Blaine starts to squirm in his seat, the proximity to Kurt too much to handle without kissing him, they rightly assume that the two lovers will soon make their excuses, express their thanks and slip out before dessert.

Which is exactly what they do.

Twenty-three minutes later, Blaine has Kurt panting, zipper down, legs apart, in the front seat of Blaine's rental. They haven't even made it out of the Eldorado's parking garage.

Blaine's hand trails down Kurt's stomach as he mouths at Kurt's neck, flushed red with want. He slips two fingers under the waistband of Kurt's briefs, rubs the pads of his fingers against Kurt's soft, hot skin. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Waiting.

It's everything he dreamed about all those years ago, jerking off in his dorm room, imagining Kurt in various states of undress as they gave in to the awkward, delicious, first-time moments of sexual awakening.

"Do something, _god,"_ Kurt says.

"Will you let me get you off?"

Blaine adjusts his hand so that his two fingers dip lower, his thumb rubbing along the outside of Kurt's briefs. He thumbs Kurt's cock, breathing into his neck, moving slowly, so slowly, waiting for an answer.

"We're steps... from the hotel—"

"Please. I can't wait. I need to see you come."

Kurt grabs Blaine's hand and pushes it down, under the soft cotton. Blaine takes hold of Kurt's cock with sure fingers, his own breath quickening at the feel of it.

"So hard for me," Blaine whispers.

_"Yes."_

Blaine strokes whimpers out of Kurt as he kisses confessions right into his mouth. "I wanted this. I wanted to reach over, unbutton your jeans, dip my hand into your underwear and touch you, feel you, have you all sweaty and relaxed and—"

"When?" Kurt asks, kissing back.

"After the movies. After coffee. After shopping. After any of it. After all of it."

Kurt reaches down and places his own hand on top of Blaine's, moving with him, guiding him to go faster, just a bit tighter, twist, now faster again, _that's it,_ more, tighter, faster, more.

"I would have let you, would have shown you—"

"How you like it? How to make you come apart—"

"I would have done anything... _please, shit..._ don't stop—"

"Would you have let me get you off every day, like this, just like this, my hand in your pants—"

"Yes, _yes._ Every day—"

"You'd trust me with your body, with everything new and confusing and hot—"

"Yes, everything..."

"—And you wouldn't even be scared—"

"Because it would be you."

Their hands move in unison now, driving Kurt perfectly, _perfectly,_ and Blaine can see Kurt's orgasm build in him, see Kurt chase it, expect it, need it.

"Come on—"

"Blaine, _Blaine—"_

"I thought about this _so much,_ Kurt... _that's it, come on—"_

Kurt arches his back and comes over Blaine's fingers, his own fingers squeezing down on Blaine's hand _hard,_ like he needs him, like his hand is a lifeline. Blaine rests his head on Kurt's shoulder and looks down at Kurt's lap, at the trail of soft hair down his stomach, at his firm, muscled thighs spread out to the edges of the seat.

Suddenly he's crying again, his tears silent, warm and salty as they slide down his cheeks in single file, wetting Kurt's shoulder. He hears the song, _his song,_ his song _for Kurt_ , and remembers all of it. Every hopeful thought. Every wish. Every disappointed sigh. Somehow, all the mind-blowing sex they've had in the past two days pales in comparison to this simple thing. Because this is how he always pictured it, the first thing, the thing they'd do a hundred times before they did anything else, the thing that would start their _forever._

He'd thought about giving this to Kurt every time they pulled into the Dalton parking lot, every time he dropped Kurt off at home, every time he pulled up to his parent's house with Kurt in the passenger seat, ready to jump out of the car and start their evening of platonic fun. And now they've come full circle, here in the shadows of this parking garage, surrounded by concrete and dust-covered cars.

Kurt moves their hands, zips up his pants and turns in his seat to face Blaine, gently knocking Blaine's head off of his shoulder. He takes Blaine's face in his hands and kisses Blaine's forehead, his eyelids, his cheeks, his lips. It feels a lot like love.

"Let's go upstairs. Okay?" Kurt says.

"Okay."

Kurt is silent as he leads Blaine by the hand, through the lobby and up to his room. Blaine wonders if he knows. He doesn't want to freak Kurt out before he's had a chance to make sure Kurt understands that he's serious. He wants Kurt to know without a doubt that Blaine chooses him, over everyone else, and always will. He won't stand a chance with Kurt otherwise.

Blaine is still feeling bittersweet, moving slow under the weight of memory, while Kurt strips off all of his clothes, sits down on the bed and pulls Blaine toward him. He wastes no time taking off Blaine's jeans and underwear, his face level with Blaine's cock. He tugs on Blaine's shirt and says, "Off."

His shirt is half off when Kurt takes him in hand, and it's everything Blaine can do to stay upright. He looks down at Kurt, adoring him, and feels the temporary melancholy leave him. Kurt is pressing hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses to his belly, working him over with _intent._

"It's okay," he says. "I know what you need."

Blaine is all about one goal now, as he pushes Kurt back on the bed. He's on his knees, sliding his hands up Kurt's pale, strong legs, kissing Kurt's calves as they hang off the edge of the bed. Kurt lifts up on his elbows, looks down at Blaine and raises and eyebrow.

Blaine presses into Kurt's thighs with his thumbs and says, "Spread your legs."

Blaine holds Kurt open with both hands, licking, tasting, fucking into him with his tongue. He moans around him, _in him,_ and Kurt babbles and curses, arching up off the bed and flopping down again, over and over again until he's begging, "Please, _oh god,_ Blaine... _Blaine..._ you're not going to do this for _hours,_ are you? Just... please... I can't... so good... shit... _Blaine—"_

And then Blaine is pressing lubed fingers inside Kurt, and Kurt is hissing, pleading, thanking him. He was right: this is exactly what he needs.

_Let me watch you fall apart. Let me take you there, out of time, to that place where you have nothing and everything and all you see is me, all you smell is me, all you know is me, and I am yours. Let me find you there, giving in to me, over and over and over again, until all that we have left is each other and_ this, this, this.

When Kurt is stretched, open, waiting, _waiting,_ Blaine stands up, leans over and says, "Wrap your legs around me."

He reaches under Kurt, lifts him just a few inches up off the bed and moves them across until they are both fully on the bed, Blaine on top of Kurt.

He doesn't want to use a condom, not now, not ever, but this thing between them isn't settled. It may never _be_ settled, so he forces himself to slip away for a moment. The condom in place, Kurt moves to turn onto his stomach, but Blaine stops him.

"You like this position, huh?" Kurt says, eyes dancing.

"I like looking at your face."

Kurt smiles, wraps his legs around Blaine again and arches up.

Blaine is fucking him slow and deep when Kurt says, "You wanted that for a long time... _shit..._ in the car... your hand—"

"Since forever," Blaine says.

"You wanted me—"

"In so many ways, Kurt," Blaine says, trying to keep the same rhythm as he leans down to kiss Kurt, tongue on teeth. He thrusts deeper, a little bit faster, his head face down on Kurt's shoulder.

"What else?" Kurt asks, his mouth pressed up against Blaine's ear. "Tell me everything."

"I would sneak out after curfew, open your door and find you there, your back against the headboard, your pajama shirt open—"

"Yes—"

"—Pants pulled down to your knees, touching yourself."

"Yes, yes... yes, more—"

"—And you'd—"

Blaine stops, sucks a mark into Kurt's shoulder, feels the pressure pool at the base of his spine, like hot liquid, and climb up his back; bright, wide fire-licks of want. If he could just stay still for a moment, if he could hold this feeling back and stave off the inevitable, it could be the best ever.

"What? Please tell me. What would I do?" Kurt pants, his hips making small, tight circles.

Blaine kisses along Kurt's jaw, and whispers, "You'd let me watch."

"Holy _hell, Blaine._ Come _on._ Just fuck me, _please."_

"I am fucking you."

"No, just do it. Do what you need. It's okay, please, I want it," Kurt begs. "If you were seventeen, eighteen... if you could have had me then—"

And then Blaine is all in, pushing Kurt's thighs wider still and his knees further back fucking into him with such force they are both reduced to grunts. It's so base, so dirty, he has a fleeting thought that his teenage self would never allow him to do this, to let go and _be this_ with Kurt, or with anyone... but he would want to.

Kurt comes without warning, without so much as a finger accidentally brushing on his cock, and then holds on to Blaine as he continues to pound into him with urgent, desperate thrusts.

"Do it. Yeah. That's it," Kurt commands, his voice disarmingly deep.

Blaine cries out when he comes—maybe he says Kurt's name; maybe he swears a blue streak, or thanks God; maybe he even confesses his love. He's not sure; whatever he said doesn't seem to upset Kurt, who is wrapping him up in his arms, his legs, his soothing voice, helping him come down.

After a few minutes, or maybe twenty, Blaine lifts his head and looks at Kurt with concern in his eyes.

"Don't ask me if I'm okay," Kurt says, rubbing Blaine's back. "I'm always okay with you."

 

 

In the morning they shower, dress and walk the few blocks to Pasqual's for breakfast, both with big days ahead of them. It's teeming with life, every table full and seemingly engaged in fascinating conversation. Blaine gulps down his glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice in one go and orders a second, which earns him a big smile from Kurt.

"You're feeling better, then?"

Blaine blushes and nods, runs his thumb over Kurt's cheekbone.

"You don't cry, not often," Kurt observes, sipping coffee.

"Not often, no."

They discuss their plans for the day over plates piled high with green chile and chorizo and sweet cornbread. Kurt _will_ order a door today, while Blaine heads over to the Santa Fe Opera for sound check. Again, Blaine is struck with the realization that they are acting very much like a regular couple, and instead of pointing it out to Kurt he keeps it, like a tiny treasure, sewn into his pocket.

Maybe Kurt feels it too. Maybe he doesn't want to upend this beautiful thing between them, so he's keeping it to himself. Maybe he's keeping other thoughts and feelings and truths to himself as well. Maybe he's waiting for Blaine to get his shit together once and for all. Or maybe none of that is true. Maybe he's just doing what he said he would do: giving himself over to Blaine for eleven, now ten precious days, before he returns to the life he's made for himself.

Maybe.

"So I got you a key card, to my room," Kurt says, interrupting Blaine's thoughts. "I just thought, well, since we're both working during this... moment... thing... whatever... you shouldn't have to wait for me in your room. You could wait for me in my room. If you want."

Kurt slides the key card over to Blaine, and Blaine laughs, remembering what he did yesterday morning, just before they left for Chimayó. Kurt looks put out, but Blaine holds him off with a raised hand and reaches into his wallet.

"Here," he says, sliding an identical key card over to Kurt. "I got one for you, too. Now you can come up to my room whenever you like," Blaine says.

"Okay, then."

"Okay."

***

"Tailgating? At the Opera? Are you serious?" Kurt asks Antonio, his mind flooded with memories of boring Buckeye's games, watching Finn and his father inhaling bratwurst and hamburgers like they were in some sort of eating contest. The last thing he wants to do is wrinkle his two thousand-dollar suit sitting in a rickety lawn chair, drinking beer from a can.

"It's not what you think," Antonio answers, pulling into a parking spot marked, "Reserved."

"It sounds awful," Deidre says. "Why did I agree to this?"

"You paid twenty-five grand for the privilege of doing this," Antonio reminds her.

"Right. I'm a fucking idiot, apparently."

Antonio starts off toward the main parking lot, away from the amphitheater's main entrance. "This way," he says.

But before Kurt takes a step, Deidre grabs hold of Kurt's arm and tells Antonio, "We'll catch up to you."

Antonio waves her off, happy to be rid of her. When he's out of earshot, Deidre turns to face Kurt. "Look, I just want to say that I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to be such a bitch yesterday, I just—"

"It's fine. I know who you are. I get it," Kurt says.

"You make me sound so... Jesus, Kurt. I'm not a _total_ bitch."

"Not totally, no," he says with just a hint of a smile.

"And you were right, about my rage thing. It's a bit out of control, I know. And that's my own shit, not yours. But still, I really think you need an intervention, Kurt. Someone has to tell you what's what," she says.

Kurt leans back against Antonio's car and sighs. "Just get it over with, then."

"You're in love with that man—" Deidre starts.

"Straight to the point, I see."

"—And you're dangerously close to blowing it with Paul, no matter what bullshit story you're telling yourself. And you _would_ be blowing it, Kurt. I may only be a few years older than you, but I know what I'm talking about. What you're feeling... it's all sex and lust and unrequited hotness—"

"—Unrequited hotness?"

"Whatever. It's sex after pining. Lots and lots of pining. I mean, _that song_ you sang. What was that line? 'You've got the kind of magic spell'—"

"It's, 'You've got the kind of magic spell, makes the wild, wild horses lay down on the ground'."

"Lord. I can't believe you didn't drop your pants and bend over the moment you heard him play it," Deidre says, fanning herself. "But it's not the thing you base a marriage on, Kurt."

"Do tell me what _your_ marriage is based on, Deidre. Is it love? I think not," Kurt says. He's all hard edges and clipped tones, his body tense with anger.

"You can't let yourself get caught up in this. You can't let yourself make big, life-altering decisions while you're caught up in this—"

"Like you've ever made an emotional decision in your life—"

"I have. I did. There was... someone. Once," Deidre says, looking out into the crowd.

"Oh, dear, he's not here is he? Is he that janitor over there? Or the box office guy? Is he the _valet,_ Deidre? This isn't your pathetic attempt to recreate a scene from _The Notebook,_ is it?"

He's joking; she knows he's joking. And he's trying to hurt her, just a little bit, because she's getting to him. "Your life is miserable. You hate almost everything about it, except the money. Why would I _ever_ follow your advice about love or marriage?"

"I'm not some cautionary tale," Deidre bites. She pauses and then says, "Okay, I am. But that doesn't change the fact that you are contemplating trading in a man who adores you and wants to marry you, a man who could very likely be the next governor of New York, for a man with whom you've had the best sex of your life. BUT—and that's a big juicy but, Kurt—you're trading in your future husband for a man who still loves you 'like a friend.' A man who is living with another man, in another country, on another continent."

Kurt can't help but wince. _Future husband._ It's all wrong, and he knows it, but what can he do? If he says anything—if he tells the truth, if he admits that when he hears the words "future husband" he really only thinks of one man, one gorgeous, soulful, ever present man—he'll likely break several hearts. Paul's, for sure. His own. And maybe Blaine's heart, too, when, for the second time in their lives he admits he can't love Kurt the way he wants to be loved. Because he'll have lost his friend. They'll all be losers. Lost. Broken.

"Remember that scene in _When Harry Met Sally?"_ Deidre asks.

"There are lots of scenes," Kurt replies.

"The one where they're arguing about the ending of _Casablanca._ Sally argues that Ilsa was right to leave Rick and get on the plane with her husband, and Harry thinks she should have stayed back, because Rick was the love of her life—"

"—And the best sex she'd ever had. Yeah, I remember—"

"Right. Well I agree with Sally. I mean, what the hell was she supposed to do in Casablanca, anyway? Hang out at the fucking bar? Wait for Rick to come home? That place was a shithole."

"So you're saying I should forget about Blaine?"

"No. How can you?" Deidre says. "I'm just saying you should get on the plane, Kurt. Get on the plane."

"Is that what you did?"

"Maybe," she answers, avoiding his eyes.

"There are so many things wrong with everything, _everything_ you just said, Deidre. First, Blaine and I have always been more than friends. We're just—"

Kurt hesitates, trying to come up with a short, articulate explanation for fourteen years of longing and missed opportunity.

He chuckles, remembering Antonio's words, and says, "We're just chickenshit, Deidre. And we have been for like, ever. And what you're seeing between us now is the opposite of that, or almost the opposite of that. And I know Blaine has a boyfriend and lives three thousand miles across a very big ocean. I know that Paul loves me and that to everyone else, we make sense. But I also know that while Blaine may not be in love with me the way I am so hopelessly in love with him, his love for me extends beyond friendship."

It's the first time he's said it out loud, and it shakes him to the core because, really, he _doesn't_ know the full extent of Blaine's feelings. Sure, he'd seen him break down yesterday, _twice,_ and that look Blaine gave him after he sang "All Kinds" was pure love, no denying it. But was it _love,_ love, the kind that's worth wrecking your life over?

Despite all of the letting go, and giving in, and sharing of regrets and fantasies and _tenderness,_ they're still playing that game, breathing in all that is left unsaid and letting it enter their lungs, their bloodstreams, their hearts. They're still unsure of themselves, and each other, and that—well, that could go on forever. It feels like it already has.

"And secondly, are you for real? Ilsa _absolutely_ should have stayed back with Rick. Everyone knows that. She left because Rick forced her to go, not because she thought she'd be better off with what's-his-name," Kurt says. "And if they made an obnoxious sequel to _Casablanca,_ it would have been all about Ilsa looking for Rick after the war and trying to get him back. Because they were meant to be."

She looks at him like he's speaking a foreign language and says, "If you tell Paul, you'll lose him."

"Probably."

"And Blaine? Has he said even one word about what will happen after you go back to New York?"

"No."

"Has he promised to leave his boyfriend for you?"

"No."

"Has he confessed his undying love for you and asked you to be his forever and ever?" Her tone is mocking, like he's some lovesick, clueless teenager who can't be bothered with reality.

"No, okay! No to all of it."

"Well—"

"Just shut up. Shut. Up. I liked this town much better when you were far away, ensconced in your penthouse, making out with a vat of gin."

"Ouch."

"That was low. Sorry."

"It's okay. I've said worse."

"Yes, you have."

They're quiet for a moment, staring out at the view of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, the desert sun softening into lavender hues. It's foreign to them, unsettling, all of this big sky and ancient earth. They both feel New York buzzing under their skin, beckoning them home. This place is crazy-making, the way it strips you down and leaves you bare, and they just want to get back to the noise of the city, let it lull them into a sense of calm, false or not.

"I hate this town," she says. "I can't believe I agreed to live here part-time."

"You'll get used to it."

Kurt extends his arm and Deidre slips hers through it. As they make their way through the crowd to find Antonio, Kurt says, "You know, Blaine and I once said we were like Harry and Sally."

"Teenagers say stupid shit."

"Is there anyone _less_ romantic than you?"

"Sure there is. My husband, for starters."

"Ah, I see how it is. A match made in heaven," Kurt says. "I bet you hurl ugly truths at each other and then have loads of hot, angry sex."

She laughs, leans into him and says, "The best kind."

They wind their way through the throngs of Santa Feans dressed black tie and sitting next to their Mercedes and Ferraris at card tables covered in the finest linen, leaning up against luxury SUVs (dinner served from the hatchbacks) or standing next to decadent spreads laid out on the hoods of Range Rovers and BMWs. There are candelabras and elaborate floral arrangements, champagne and sangria and the finest tequila, tapas and filet mignon and the most decadent chocolates. It's absurd and wonderful and odd, and Kurt is a little bit giddy at the sight of it all.

They find Antonio and Sarah sitting at a table for twenty that is covered in a soft pink tablecloth. On it glow delectable appetizers and desserts, served on deliberately mismatched fine china. Dozens of tiny votive candles give off a romantic glow; the wine flows freely.

Antonio gestures to the chairs next to him and, despite his blatant hatred of her, stands until Deidre is seated. The party is made up of Alex Marin House board members and major benefactors, all relaxed and smiling, taking in the night like this happens every day. Just a few feet away, the residents of the house sit at a smaller table, laughing and trying to act like they belong here.

Kurt snaps a few pictures on his phone, and then leans over Antonio and says to Sarah, "My Dad will _not_ believe this. It's not exactly his idea of tailgating."

"It's really an Opera thing. And yes, they really do love the Opera as much as your Dad probably loves football," Sarah explains, holding out her glass for Antonio to refill it.

"Thank you again, for inviting me," Kurt says.

Sarah beams at him and says, "I want you here. Antonio thinks the world of you, and it's an honor to have you with us."

Kurt relaxes in his chair and lets the conversation wash over him. He catches Mitchell, the producer and owner of the Galisteo studio, looking at him and smiles at him. Mitchell smiles back, and winks. At this point, he realizes, it would be a miracle if Paul didn't find out about this affair. Too many people know. Too much has happened. Too much has changed.

Through the toasts, and stories, Kurt slips into a nice warm buzz. It's not long before everyone starts to move toward the amphitheater. Volunteers stay to clean up as Sarah, Antonio, Kurt and Deidre make their way to their seats. They are in section F, three rows from the stage, and from here Kurt can actually see into the wings.

The venue is gorgeous, like nothing he's ever seen before, and he is overwhelmed with the _rightness_ of the night. He feels lucky and proud to be here with everyone—even Deidre.

Mitchell takes the stage, says a few lovely words about his passion for Alex Marin House, and then introduces Sarah. The applause is deafening—clearly she is well loved and well respected. Kurt hears the boys calling out to her from across the aisle. As she speaks about the work she does, about the kids she loves, about the futures they now have thanks to everyone in the room, Kurt cannot help but tear up. If he hadn't had Burt, if he had been born into a frightened, ignorant family, any one of their stories could have been his story.

And because Sarah is awesome in so many ways, her speech is over before anyone can get too blubbery. She squeals when she thanks Adele, and Mitchell, and the band (Blaine!), and then she's off the stage and back in her seat in a flash.

"Was that okay?" she asks, reaching out for Antonio's hand.

"It was perfect, sweetheart."

The house lights down, Kurt notices lamps everywhere in yellow tones, the motif for the night. The band takes the stage, and Kurt strains to see Blaine in the darkness, but can't make him out.

Adele takes the stage to more applause, looking _fabulous_ in a high-wasted black cocktail dress. She greets the crowd. "I'm just tickled to be here, and thrilled to have the chance to support Alex Marin House, a place that lights the way for so many kids who are lost in darkness."

The piano kicks in with the opening bars of "[I'll Be Waiting](http://youtu.be/MsdP5NzWZg8)," and Adele adds, "This is a rare fast one, so if you want to move, now's the time to do it."

She is in top form, and Kurt lets himself get caught up in the night, lets himself feel okay with his choices, lets himself stare unabashedly at Blaine. _Blaine._ Blaine, who looks like a fucking rock star up there in his black suit, pants tight, hair wild. He's playing guitar and singing backup vocals, and if Kurt weren't so madly in love with him already, he would fall for him instantly.

Kurt leans forward, his ass nearly off his seat when Blaine steps forward and starts in on the opening chords of "[It's Alright](http://youtu.be/gf_OsStVpzs)" by the Eurythmics. Kurt doesn't know the song, but Blaine is killing it, and the song is gorgeous.

She sings her new song, "Forever Man" a cappella, and Kurt smiles, wondering if the decision was Blaine's idea. She's just reached the end of the song when his phone vibrates in his pocket.

**Blaine:**  
Are you enjoying yourself?

**Kurt:**  
You're texting me from the stage.

**Blaine:**  
Obviously.

**Kurt:**  
But aren't you supposed to do something with that guitar right about now?

**Blaine:**  
Probably not. We're trying something different with the next song.

**Kurt:**  
Still. This is pretty tacky, Blaine.

**Blaine:**  
True, but necessary.

**Kurt:**  
Necessary? How so?

**Blaine:**  
I have to tell you something.

**Kurt:**  
So tell me.

**Blaine:**  
Adele and I worked out the set list for tonight.

**Kurt:**  
Okay. Am I missing something?

**Blaine:**  
Just listen to the song. I asked her to sing it.

**Blaine:**  
For you. She's singing it for you.

He looks up from his phone and sees Blaine looking at him, smiling that all-over smile he loves so much. Kurt's pulse quickens, and even though it's probably the worst idea ever, he leans over to Antonio and says, "She's singing it for me. He dedicated the next song to me."

Deidre's eyebrows shoot up and Sarah squeals, while Antonio turns to look at Blaine.

[ **PRESS PLAY** ](http://youtu.be/deP3S2TUmww)

The piano comes in, and Kurt doesn't recognize the song at first. But then as soon as Adele starts singing, his breath catches in his throat and he grips his phone tightly, as if it were Blaine's hand, as if he could reach through the phone and grab him. He looks at Blaine, fights back tears and listens to every word.

_"God only knows why it's taken me so long to let my doubts go. You're the only one that I want,"_ Adele sings, pure and strong. Kurt can tell she's looking for him in the audience, and it seem so surreal, to have Adele singing to him, willing him to listen on behalf of Blaine, this boy, this _man_ he's loved so long.

_Holy shit. Is Blaine in love with me? Does he want to be with me? Is this for real?_

_"I don't know why I'm scared, 'cause I've been here before. Every feeling, every word, I've imagined it all. You never know if you never try, to forgive your past and simply be mine,"_ she sings, her eyes landing on Kurt. She pours everything into the song, and Kurt's eyes dart from her to Blaine and back again, not sure where to focus.

"Well, _shit,"_ Deidre says. "I guess you're not getting on the plane."

He looks over at Blaine, who hasn't stopped staring at him, and lets the tears fall. Suddenly Kurt is that boy again, drawing their names in red hearts, fantasizing about Blaine Anderson: hero, savior, mentor, friend. He's that boy with a lonely heart, holding out for happiness, biding his time until he can escape to a place where people will accept him, befriend him, celebrate him. He's that boy who moons over his best friend, waiting for him to notice him _that way,_ to claim him, to ask him, to want him, to fight for him, to declare his love and lay down his heart for him.

He's long since given up being serenaded by Blaine. Even when Blaine sang his own songs, even when it _sounded_ like he _might_ have written the song for him, Kurt never knew for sure. Because Blaine never said anything, and Blaine never sang to him, or about him, just _with_ him.

And now this. It's not Blaine singing—it's freaking _Adele—_ but this time Blaine was clear. _I asked her to sing it. She's singing it for you._

Kurt wants to run to him, wring the truth out of him, kiss his palms and rest his head on his chest for years and years. He wants to hold him, to sway with him like they did that night that seems like _ages_ ago. He wants to _know,_ to hear it from Blaine's lips, to see the truth in his eyes.

Adele sings the chorus and it goes right through him, like a gust of wind. _"I dare you to let me be your, your one and only. I promise I'm worthy to hold in your arms. So come on and give me the chance, to prove I am the one who can, walk that mile, until the end starts."_

Can this really be happening?

What the hell am I going to do?

Why is he doing this _now?_

Antonio and Sarah are looking at him, smiling; Deidre pinches his arm. It's too much, the magnitude of the moment. It's the big reveal, Ilsa confessing her love for Rick at their clandestine meeting, Harry confessing his love for Sally on New Year's Eve. But instead of feeling joyous or even relieved, he suddenly feels trapped. It feels as if all of the air has left his body and he can't catch his breath. Everyone and everything is crowding him—the faces, the music, the promises, the stares.

Kurt can't believe he's actually feeling claustrophobic in an amphitheater, but _he is._ Rows upon rows of strangers unknowingly watching his life officially fall apart—or get made—it's too much. Everyone is smiling and happy and he just wants to run, run, run.

He's up out of his seat before he can think twice about it, his pace quickening as he makes his way to the end of the aisle. Within minutes he's back in the parking lot, doubled over, chest heaving like he's having an asthma attack. He can hear the song echoing in the desert, and in his heart. And he instantly regrets running because Blaine saw him.

He had to have seen me. What must he be thinking? He must think I'm crazy, or that I don't love him, and I do, I do love him. He owns my heart. He always has. And now this. It's a giant mess—

"Kurt?"

Kurt turns to see Blaine standing not five feet away, a bit out of breath.

"Did you mean it?" Kurt asks.

"Yes."

"You're in love with me?"

"Yes."

Kurt doubles over again, trying to catch his breath. Blaine crosses to him, rubbing his back, saying nothing. After a moment, Kurt straightens up and asks, "How long?"

"I want us to be together—"

"No. How long have you been in love with me?"

The answer to this one question is all Kurt needs to know. Because this man, this friend, this lover of his has always given in to whims and drama and intensity, and Kurt has to be sure that he is not _that._ He has to be sure that this is not _new._

Blaine steps into Kurt's space, tilts his chin up and kisses him. The kiss is firm, an answer, a promise.

"I can't remember a time when I _wasn't_ in love with you."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for fic overall: Infidelity, profanity, graphic sex, angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Mimsy for proofreading and coding!

"What? Just... _what?"_

"You heard me," Blaine says. His voice is gentle, but firm; unwavering.

"That can't be... how can that be?" Kurt asks.

He doubles over again, holding his stomach, sure that he'll end up vomiting on his Ferragamo loafers. He expected a different answer, a story of how Blaine fell in love with him over time or all at once, but later, not from the beginning. They couldn't have been in love with each other at the same time, this whole time. Could they have? Because that would be insane, and tragic, and _insane._ He expected an answer pulled from the past, but not from the very start of it all.

It would have made more sense if Blaine had said, _I fell in love with you that Christmas, when we picked out your tree together and stayed up all night staring at it and talking._ That year Blaine showed up at the Hummel-Hudson house unexpectedly. It was their last holiday break as college students. Their friendship had started to fade in the wake of new experiences, new interests, new friends, new everything. Kurt hadn't talked to Blaine since October, so he had no idea if Blaine planned to come home for Christmas.

It was tradition for Kurt to pick out a tree with his dad, so Burt and Carole had waited until he arrived from New York to get a tree. Blaine showed up just as they were pulling out giant plastic tubs from the basement marked "Christmas Ornaments" and "Lights: Color." Blaine wore a bright smile on his face, his navy pea coat covered in a light dusting of wet snow. Kurt was flustered but ecstatic, and suddenly they were all climbing into Kurt's Navigator en route to the same firehouse tree lot from which the Hummel's had purchased trees since Kurt was in grade school.

Kurt never asked Blaine why he showed up that night, but everyone assumed he'd stay through dinner, through hanging lights and stringing popcorn and cranberries, through trimming their giant, fat tree with every Hummel, Hudson and Hummel-Hudson ornament they owned.

After Finn hung the star, after Burt and Carole went to bed and Finn left to meet up with Puck, Kurt and Blaine turned out all of the downstairs lights and talked for hours, Kurt's feet in Blaine's lap. It was easy and sort of magical; that could have been the night Blaine fell in love with Kurt. That confession would not have taken him by surprise, not at all.

Or if Blaine had said, _It was that night I called you from London and we talked for nearly four hours._ Blaine was a little drunk and a little sad that night, having just put his parents on a plane after a tense visit. Kurt sat on the rooftop of his Brooklyn apartment and watched the Staten Island Ferry go back and forth across the East River as he listened to Blaine rant, and qualify, and fight back tears. He clung to his phone like a lifeline as they tested and teased each other, and sighed heavy sighs when the unspoken, lingering want became too much. Kurt would have accepted that Blaine fell in love with him that night—hell, after that marathon call he half expected him to show up on his stoop the next day.

Or it could have been any number of moments Kurt never witnessed, moments when Blaine looked at old photographs or videos of Warbler performances and suddenly everything clicked and he just _knew;_ moments when he was caught up in conversation with someone Kurt had never met, talking about old friends, and his best friend, his Kurt, and he would finally get it; moments when he compared a boyfriend's face to Kurt's face and realized, in an instant, that he had fallen madly in love with his most treasured friend.

But no. It goes back to the beginning, to a time when Kurt thought he was alone in his desires, his vision for the future, _their_ future. He can't wrap his head around it. It's amazing and thrilling and too much.

So he asks again.

"You're _in love with me?"_

"I am."

"Since—"

"Since forever," Blaine interrupts.

"No, no. _No._ You didn't want me... you said—"

Kurt sways a bit. He feels like he might fall, just collapse right there in the Santa Fe Opera parking lot where not two hours ago he was sipping champagne and laughing at all of the wonderful running through his veins.

Blaine grabs his elbow to steady him, and Kurt tugs his arm away and sits on the ground. The asphalt is smooth and dirty, but he can't bring himself to care about the damage to his pants. Blaine flops down beside him, close but not too close, and reaches for his hand. Kurt hesitates but takes it, bringing their joined hands into his lap. Still slightly nauseated, he takes a few deep breaths.

"The other night, at The Pink, when you told me that you've always wanted me, I thought you meant sex. Just... sex."

"If this, _this,"_ Blaine says, squeezing Kurt's hand, "were just about sex, we would have fooled around ages ago. It's always been more than sex."

"Of course it's more than just sex. That's not what I meant. It's more because we're friends. We used to be best friends, and sometimes we still are. I know it's _more_ than just sex, I know we love each other like family, but—"

"You _are_ my family, Kurt. You're the only family I'll ever want," Blaine says, and Kurt is stunned silent again. He stares at Blaine, looking for something, some clue as to what the hell is going on with him. Kurt is still not sure this is real, and if it is, well, he can't even _think_ about that right now.

"You... the things you _say,_ Blaine—"

"I mean every word—"

"We haven't seen each other in five years, Blaine. How can you—?"

"Four. It's been four years."

"Whatever. It's still years. _Years._ And now this... just.... out of the blue—"

"That's what I'm trying to explain. It's _not_ out of the blue."

Kurt looks away and says, "I feel like I've had the wind knocked out of me."

"I'm sure. And I know none of this is simple, and I have a lot of explaining to do, but just so we're clear," Blaine says, shifting to face Kurt. "When I said I've always wanted you, I meant _all_ of you: your body, your ideas, your memories, your whole heart. I want your dreams, your spare drawer, your mornings, your worries. Your triumphs, your laughter, your bad nights, and your quiet days. I want your _future,_ Kurt.... just so we're clear."

"Holy hell, Blaine. Did you practice saying that?"

Blaine shrugs and smiles. "Well, I am a songwriter. I may have practiced, but it doesn't make any of it less true."

Kurt searches Blaine's earnest face. He looks nervous, like maybe Kurt will reject him. The long-awaited turnabout is not as delicious as Kurt had imagined years ago; he's not entirely sure that he _won't_ walk away from Blaine. The stakes are higher. Everything is different. They're all grown up, now.

"I would never give you a spare drawer," Kurt teases, trying to smooth out Blaine's furrowed brow with words. "I need _all_ of the storage."

Kurt leans over and places a soft, tentative kiss on Blaine's lips. As he pulls away, the questions and concerns remain behind Blaine's eyes.

"Blaine—"

"Kurt—it _was_ more than just sex for you, right? This thing between us, it's always been more than this crazy chemistry. Right?"

Kurt wants to agree, to come back with something like, _Yes, it's always been everything,_ but he can't say it. He can't confirm or deny his feelings, or give Blaine a chance to exhale and think his admission was worth it. Because if he does, if he admits to loving him and needing him, if he admits that no other man has ever even come close to claiming his whole heart; if he admits that he's been pining for Blaine for so long it's a fucking _lifestyle,_ that he's good at it, that he's used to it, that he might not know who he is without the ever-present shadow of unrequited love at his heels, he'll have to start over.

If he confesses this one, sacred, life-altering truth, he'll have to let go of every self-deception, knock down every wall, reveal every choice made in the name of vanity, or conformity, or "personal growth," and embrace the man he was meant to be. Because loving Blaine has never just been about loving Blaine; loving Blaine has always been about _becoming,_ about meeting his own destiny and saying yes to a life he hasn't planned out to the letter.

Somehow, he's always known this to be true, but it's only in this moment that he realizes it. So he can't say everything that needs to be said, or admit to all of his feelings. He needs to think. To breathe. To take this night apart and put it back together until his life makes sense again.

"Blaine, this is a lot."

"I know, I know. I'm sorry I sprung this on you, but I had to do it."

Blaine takes his other hand and runs his thumb along the inside of Kurt's wrist. As always, it works like a charm, calming him enough that he can think straight. His nausea subsides and he listens to Adele's voice, floating over them and into the desert night. It's another one of her new songs, and though he can't make out the words, somehow it sounds like the words that have haunted him, and altered him in just a few short days.

_Do you need something?_

_I've always wanted you._

_I can't remember a time when I wasn't in love with you._

He knows Blaine wants an answer, and he also knows that Blaine will wait for it. Because Blaine is a gentleman, and kind, and because Blaine is his dear, dear friend. So he kisses Blaine on the neck and then tilts his head up to look at the stars shimmering in the sky, the sky that, uninterrupted by skylines and progress, seems to go on forever and ever.

"Can you believe the stars, Blaine? It's even more than we can see back home," Kurt says finally.

Blaine looks up. Kurt can feel him smiling. Maybe it's a rueful smile, or maybe Blaine is all lit up inside, relieved after his confession; Kurt can't tell from this angle. But at least he's smiling, whatever the reason for it.

"Mitch says they have meteor showers this time of year, the Perseids, he called them. If we're lucky, we'll spot some this trip. The best time to watch them is just before dawn."

"I've never seen a meteor shower. Have you?" Kurt asks.

"No. But I know I will someday."

"How do you know?"

"Because Mitch said the Perseids have been coming every August for two thousand years. They are a constant, and they'll be visible here and other places next year, too. I'll see them eventually."

Kurt stares at the sky for a few moments; then he stands, pulling Blaine up with him. He dusts off his pants and brushes a few pebbles from the backs of Blaine's thighs. Blaine looks resigned now, like he knows he's not getting what he wants tonight. Kurt could let him off the hook—he could. But he needs to think. He has so many questions—for himself, for Blaine—and he can't really handle hearing the answers right now.

"May I have tonight?" he asks.

"Yes. Anything."

Kurt cups Blaine's face in his hands and kisses him again. It's wet and beautiful and Kurt feels it down to his toes. Blaine wraps his arms around him and pulls him close. When their lips part he holds him protectively, like he's fragile, like he's something precious.

"Meet me for coffee tomorrow?" Kurt asks.

"Of course. Text me when you're ready and we'll walk together."

"Okay."

As Kurt makes his way back to his seat and Blaine back to the stage, Adele sings the standard "[When I Fall In Love](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GfAb0gNPy6s)." He feels like he's walking in a strange, wonderful, terrifying dream, a dream in which he gets whatever he wants, but a minute too late.

When he finds his seat, Antonio and Sarah are in their own little Nat King Cole bubble, nuzzling and squeezing each other like two kittens, just schmaltzy enough to give Kurt fodder with which to tease Antonio for days. Deidre stares at the adoring couple, arms crossed, pouting. He ignores her, sits down and searches the stage for Blaine, but it's just Adele and the piano right now.

_Will he come out again at all? Maybe he's losing it, too. Maybe he feels the weight of it, his whole world crashing down around him and every single fucking dream coming true all at the very same time. Maybe he's dying inside, because I couldn't tell him. Maybe he thinks I'm chickening out again, that this is just another repeat of the same story—a story that always ends in disappointment._

Kurt remembers Blaine singing this song at that piano bar, Marie's Crisis in the Village. Blaine and his Canadian boyfriend Trevor came to Manhattan for a getaway, and Kurt and his then-boyfriend Miles met them for dinner. Someone suggested the piano bar, and before long they were shutting down the place, Kurt and Blaine taking turns singing until the piano player had enough.

A few songs before they closed up for the night, Blaine handed the piano player a twenty and begged him to break the rules and play one song _not_ from a musical. Kurt feared the worst—Katy Perry or some throwback boy band tune—and so was surprised when he heard the first notes of the song. Blaine sang it to the wall, to the room, to the rim of his glass, never once making eye contact with anyone—not Trevor, and certainly not Kurt.

_When I give my heart it will be completely, or I'll never give my heart._ As lovers do when someone croons a romantic song, Miles squeezed Kurt's hand, but all Kurt could offer him was a terse smile. Would he ever find someone for whom it would be worth laying down this persistent crush, this gorgeous unnameable thing?

Adele's voice blends with Kurt's memory, the past and present in perfect harmony. _And the moment I can feel that you feel that way too, is when I fall in love with you._

After she finishes the song, Adele excuses herself for a moment, and the band continues to riff on the classic tune. The audience assumes it's part of the show, but Kurt suspects her absence has something to do with Blaine, because moments later he walks back onstage, slips his guitar strap over his head and stands front and center with the other guitar players.

The band is quiet now, waiting. Before the audience has a chance to get restless, the backup singers start in on "[Rolling in the Deep](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7QexZ-vmVV0)." Everyone is out of their seats, clapping the beat, and as Adele walks back on the stage singing the first lines of the song, the audience goes mad. The band kicks in. Kurt's eyes are glued to Blaine, ever the professional. Looking at him, you'd never know he just confessed a secret he's kept half of his life.

Kurt gets caught up in the song along with everyone else, lets the music take him out of his head and back into his body, into the amazing that is Adele. The past few days have merged to become one, giant "pinch-me" moment. She is part of that moment, Adele, this icon that is now Blaine's friend, this artist whom Kurt has often referred to as "genius" and "stunning" and "epic" but is also this woman who knows all about Kurt and Blaine and cares about what happens to them. He could never have dreamed this night for himself.

When she finishes the song, the crowd screams and applauds. Kurt wonders how far the sound will travel across the high desert.

Then [Adele says](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ew-9r_6MABg), "I've enjoyed singing for you guys, so thank you very, very much for coming and giving me your time. I really do appreciate it. It means the world to me, so thank you very much. This is 'Someone Like You.' Have a wonderful night and get home safely."

"Oh, shit," Kurt says, a bit too loudly.

"What?" Deidre asks.

"This song." Kurt sinks back into his seat. He looks for Blaine, but he's stepped into the shadows and he can't see his face. Did he choose this song, too, or is it just her standard encore song?

_"I know,_ this song pisses me off so much," Deidre says.

She doesn't know. How could she? She wasn't there to witness them give in to age-old desire, to see them fall into each other, desperate with want. She didn't see them clinging to each other, sinking; she didn't see them lost in each other's eyes, twisting hands in each other's shirts, gripping. She didn't see them kiss for the very first time, then again, and again, and again, all full of heat and loss and anticipation.

Suddenly, Sarah reaches over Deidre's lap and takes Kurt's hand in her own. He looks over at her, expecting a placating pity of a smile, but all he sees is love. She's not sad for him; she's overcome with happiness. It's all over her face, like she knows this song wasn't the beginning of the end for him, but the beginning of everything that matters.

"You were there," he says, remembering, and she nods. He's so grateful for her blanket acceptance.

She pulls him closer to her, so close he's almost in Deidre's lap, and says, "It's supposed to turn your life upside down. That's the _point."_

"What the fuck is she talking about?" Deidre asks, thoroughly annoyed.

"Love. She's talking about love."

Deidre is not amused. She wiggles a bit and uses both hands to push both Sarah and Kurt back into their seats. Adele is singing her heart out. Kurt listens intently, joins in when she asks the room to sing along, and lets go of the sadness this song once held for him.

The song used to be about pain, the anthem of missed opportunities and what might have been. But now it's the song he danced to with the man he loves. The song used to be about longing for the love of your life, knowing you can't change the outcome. Now, it's the song that changed everything.

***

Blaine slumps down in the chair, his head low and resting on the edge. He needs a few minutes to compose himself before he faces the band, Gretchen, the Alex Marin House kids and board members, and anyone else with VIP privileges. Maybe Adele will let him off the hook, let him wallow backstage in her dressing room until he can safely slink off to his hotel, alone.

He can feel the headache work its way up the base of his skull when Adele walks into the room and shuts the door behind her.

"I'm sorry—"

She holds one hand up to stop him. "Don't. I'm not angry. I know you'll never run off the stage during a concert again. Right?"

"Right."

"Good."

Adele faces the mirror and begins taking it all down—her hair, her jewelry, her face. He likes her dress. Classy and girly, it's a throw back to her early style, so he tells her so.

"I forgot to tell you–you looked beautiful tonight. You were amazing."

"Thank you. Hubby's here though, love, so you can lay off the flattery," she says. "He's been telling me I'm beautiful since the moment he stepped off the plane."

"Where is Stephen, anyway?"

"Chatting up some cowboys, probably. The way he romanticizes American mythology—"

"Cowboys are real, Adele."

"Whatever," she says, winking at him in the mirror. When she's finished she stands up and says, "So are you staying in here to watch me strip down to my knickers, or are you going to face the lot outside that door?"

"May I stay here? I won't look. I'll just close my eyes."

"Turn 'round, _and_ close your eyes. I'm a modest, married woman," Adele teases.

Blaine snorts. He shifts in his seat and closes his eyes, happy to be sheltered by her. He takes comfort in her quiet, steadfast support, lets it soothe his pride and allay his fears.

From across the room Adele asks, "Gretchen is telling everyone you broke up with Liam. Is that true?"

"It is."

"And how was that, then?"

"Awful."

"I bet."

"Necessary."

"For you and for him," Adele agrees.

"I tried to tell him yesterday, but I couldn't get through. He turned off his phone, went up to his mother's house for the weekend. He was avoiding me. He knew it was coming."

"And what did you say to make it better for him?"

"I told him I wanted to love him the way he needed me to love him, but I was wrong to try, because it was impossible," Blaine says.

"Did it work?"

"Of course not. There's no way to make this better, or right. I fucked up. I never should have let him love me."

"Well, it's not like you have much say in that sort of thing now, is it? But you did fuck up. Every minute you let this nonsense with Kurt go on, you were fucking up. Do you not think you're worthy? Is that it? Are you punishing yourself for something?"

Blaine rubs his temple, his headache worsening by the minute. "I don't know. I... there were so many different reasons for not telling Kurt how I felt, I couldn't even tell you all of them."

"You can open your eyes," she says.

He doesn't want to open them. He wants to stay here, in this chair, in this dressing room, until someone fixes everything and he can just run into Kurt's arms and stay there forever. He didn't expect his confession to cause Kurt to nearly pass out from anxiety. He had hoped that Kurt would return his feelings, that they would both promise to take a chance, but now he's not even sure if they'll fulfill their promise of twelve days together. And if that's all over now, he'll leave his eyes closed, thank you.

When he finally does open his eyes, Adele is fully dressed, slipping on her boots. "That was the second time Kurt ran off during one of my songs. I mean, what the fuck, Blaine? He's going to end up with a conditioned response—what's that experiment? You know, the one with the dog?"

"Pavlov's something or other?" Blaine asks.

"Did it work, then?" she says. "Did you get him back?"

"Back? We were never together—"

"Oh my lovely, I mean this in the nicest possible way: Please take your head out of your arse. You two are blind as bats, and willfully so," Adele says, hugging him from behind. "You may not have been very good at it—distance and boyfriends and bullshit and all that—but you were most definitely together. Ask around, your prep school friends, that screechy girl you brought back stage in L.A. I'm sure you'll soon discover you were in a relationship with Kurt all this time, and you were the only two that didn't realize it."

Blaine stares at her, dumbfounded. He was used to imagining what it would be like to be _in_ a relationship with Kurt. He hoped and fantasized so much he could win an Olympic medal in pining. But he never considered the fact that he actually _was_ in a relationship with Kurt.

"If Kurt and I have been together all this time, then someone should punch me in the face, because I've behaved terribly," Blaine says.

"Don't start the self-hate crap. You'll just waste even more time sorting this out," Adele warns.

"No, I suck. I really and truly suck."

"Come on. Let's get you back. You can order ice cream and vodka and fall asleep with your clothes on."

"That sounds disgusting. And perfect."

"I know, dear. It's never just one thing at a time, is it?"

Blaine does end up schmoozing with Alex Marin House benefactors, the elite of Santa Fe society in their layers of organic fabric and twenty thousand-dollar crystal pendants. He does manage to avoid Gretchen's glare and the band's inquisitive stares, however, as he makes his way through the crowd to Sarah.

"He left," she says, anticipating his question.

"I figured."

"Thank you again for joining us last night. The kids can't stop talking about the two of you."

"It was our pleasure," Blaine says. He likes speaking for both of them, as if their lives are already intertwined.

"That was a bold move... the song."

"I tend to indulge in grand gestures."

"Hmm. Kurt seems like the type of person who appreciates all things grand," she says, with a twinkle in her eye.

"Usually, yes." Blaine smiles warmly at her, and then remembers an earlier conversation with Adele. "We'll be back at The Pink on Monday night. Will you and Antonio join us?"

"Are you kidding? Hell yes, we will!"

"Great. I'll see you there, then. Do you have a way home?"

"Yes. Antonio is coming back for me. That is, if hasn't strangled Deidre and is busy disposing of her body in Diablo Canyon."

"Is there really a Diablo Canyon, or is that just a thing?" Blaine asks.

"It's real, and not far from here." She reads a text on her phone. "He'll be here soon, actually, so I'm covered."

"Okay. See you."

She kisses him on the cheek and gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before she joins Mitchell at the little post-event bar set up backstage. He wonders how much she knows. She was sitting right next to Kurt the entire night. Did she let him freak out and tell her everything? Did she give him advice?

Blaine is on autopilot from the moment he pulls out of the parking lot. It's a fifteen-minute drive to the Eldorado, but when he pulls up to the valet it feels like it's only been a few minutes. His head is throbbing now, and his vision is starting to blur.

Blaine knows he has maybe half an hour before he's dealing with a full-on migraine, so once in his room he goes straight to the bathroom in search of his prescription. He splashes cold water on his face, slips off his shoes and stops cold when he steps into the main room.

"Hi."

Kurt is perched on his bed, eyes red from crying, legs crossed, both hands holding onto his knee. He looks exhausted: his skin is blotchy, his shoulders sag under the weight of revelation, and his hair is most definitely in need of a do-over.

He's the most beautiful sight Blaine has ever seen.

"I used my key card, your key card, the one you gave me," Kurt explains. "I hope that's okay."

"Of course. Yes. Absolutely." Blaine doesn't make a move; he's afraid he'll spook him and Kurt will run again, like a scared animal. "I thought you wanted to talk tomorrow, over coffee."

Kurt throws his hands in the air, gestures toward his disheveled state and laughs. "Blaine, _Blaine..._ we're such fuck-ups. This is _crazy."_

Blaine is on his knees in front of him in an instant. Kurt uncrosses his legs and makes room for Blaine to scooch up as close to him as possible. Blaine places one hand on each of Kurt's knees and begins rubbing them with his thumbs in tiny circles.

"I wanted to tell you. I _tried_ to tell you," Blaine says, his pleas careful and quiet.

Kurt takes a deep breath and says, "So tell me now."

"I didn't know at first. I couldn't recognize it. I thought we were just friends. The feeling I had whenever you were around, and that other feeling, when you _weren't_ around, it was new, and confusing, and we were young," Blaine explains. "By the time I realized I was in love with you— _so, so_ in love with you—I was worried you wouldn't feel the same. And then I was worried that if by some miracle you did still care for me, it could eventually end and our friendship would be ruined. And then at some point confessing how I really felt became this insurmountable thing—"

Kurt nods and says, "It was easier to leave it wide open—"

"Yes, and I kept thinking, 'If he wants me, he'll tell me.' So I poked, and teased, hoping one day you'd just take the hint," Blaine says.

"But I never did."

"Granted, some of my hints were vague, and some were completely juvenile," Blaine says, breaking out in a grin.

"Completely."

"I was a coward, Kurt. And I'm... I'm so very sorry."

Kurt touches Blaine's cheek. "You were an idiot."

"I was an idiot."

"I was an idiot, too. I still am, I think."

"Why do you say that?" Blaine asks, his heart in his throat.

"Because this idiot is hopelessly, madly, undeniably in love with you, and has been for a very, very long time... and, aside from admitting to a schoolboy's crush once upon a time, never did a damn thing about it."

Blaine lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. His head drops in relief, falling on to Kurt's thigh, and he's kissing Kurt's hand—fast kisses, a dozen or more, in gratitude.

"Oh Kurt, _Kurt._ Say it again. Say it a thousand times."

Kurt lifts Blaine's head just as he did not two hours before, holds his face in his hands. But this time is different. This time he looks down on Blaine with shining eyes and says, "You are so in love with me."

Blaine whispers, "Yes, yes, yes."

"And I am so in love with you."

"Oh, God. _Yes."_

Their kiss is long and deep. Blaine can feel it in every cell in his body: this opening up, this rightness. When it's too much he pulls away, plasters his face into Kurt's neck until he catches his breath and then dives back in again, taking hold, slipping every secret wish into Kurt's mouth as his tongue lays claim over its contours. He feels like Kurt is sucking the truth right out of him, pulling him down, down, down until they are both panting and dazed with the enormity of it all.

_Let me live in this moment forever, and if this is all we have, let me die here; let me lie with this man until I take my final breath. But please,_ please, _let there be more. Let me keep this. Please. Please._

"Please what, my love?"

"I... I didn't know I... I was praying, asking—I didn't know I said that out loud."

"You were praying?"

"I was pleading—"

"For me?"

"For more."

Kurt kisses him softly, gently, his hand at the nape of Blaine's neck. Blaine winces: suddenly, the migraine hits him full on. He burrows his head in Kurt's lap and cries out in pain.

"Migraine," he says, anticipating Kurt's question. "I already took something for it."

"What do you do for it? Should I turn off the lights?"

"Bed. I need to sleep. I'll feel better in the morning."

Kurt undresses Blaine, pulls back the covers and helps him into bed. He pulls the curtains closed, and after undressing himself, turns off the lights and slides in next to Blaine.

"May I touch your head? Would that help?"

"Just hold my hand. And stay close."

"Okay."

They lie there in the dark, listening to each other breathing, until Kurt stifles a giggle.

"What's funny?"

"You tell me you love me, and I almost have a panic attack. I tell you I love you, and you get a migraine," Kurt explains, giving himself over to the giggle.

"If I marry you, does that mean I'll contract a horrible disease?" Blaine asks.

"Maybe we're allergic," Kurt offers.

"To love?"

"To drama."

"You? Never."

"Hush. Your brain hurts, remember?"

They are quiet for a moment, and just before he nods off, Blaine says, "For the record, it was at Mercedes' Anti-Prom party, junior year. I was watching you—I was always watching you, God, could that have been a clue? You were standing with Rachel, adjusting something on her dress and she must have said something funny because you laughed. You laughed so hard you threw your head back, put your whole body into it, really, and it hit me all at once. I literally heard a voice in my head say, 'Blaine Anderson, you are in love with Kurt Hummel.' I heard it plain as day. And that was it. You just... laughed, and I was gone. I was yours."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for fic overall: Infidelity, profanity, graphic sex, angst.
> 
> Thank you to Mimsy for coding and proofreading.
> 
> Another "PRESS PLAY" chapter.

When he wakes up Blaine is holding him, one arm across his waist, the other underneath him, just barely touching his back. He settles into Blaine's loose embrace, listens to him breathe, watches his eyelids flutter as if trying to open. The room is cool and dark, save for slivers of the blazing New Mexico sun fighting to get in through the heavy curtains.

He wants to curl into Blaine and drift off, get lost in the lazy Sunday morning they never got to have and wake up an hour or two later to Blaine's soft kisses. He wants to order room service and eat it on the bed, naked, wrapped up in the sheets and Blaine's smile. More than that, he wants to see Blaine's face the moment he wakes and realizes Kurt is with him, that he wants him, that he _loves_ him. So he waits, eyes focused on the relaxed features of Blaine's gorgeous sleeping face.

It's only the fourth day of the twelve he promised Blaine, and already he feels as though they've been together for a lifetime. In a way, they have. He's certainly loved Blaine for most of his life. He's thought about him every day.

Sometimes it's just a passing thought—walking by the ice rink at Bryant Park and wondering if Blaine found a new skating partner in London, smiling into his coffee when he hears one of the Warblers' old songs blasting out of the Mudtruck. And always, it comes when he searches Paul's lovely brown eyes for flecks of gold.

Sometimes his thoughts of Blaine last longer. Sometimes he stands at the Mudtruck, or in the elevator, or in the produce section and listens to the entire song, his mind full of honey eyes, smiling; of summer-tanned arms hanging out of car windows, tapping a rhythm on the the door; of the flirty tenor of Blaine's voice beckoning him no matter how many days and miles and walls he puts between them.

Then there are the days he thinks about Blaine _all day long,_ which usually culminate in a Meg Ryan marathon and a box of cupcakes from Magnolia Bakery. Those days are few and far between— he's had six, maybe seven all told—but they sneak up on him without warning. He'll be fine, really quite fine (thank you very much), happy, even. And then he'll suddenly have an entire day to himself with no commitments, chores or responsibilities, and by midmorning he'll be in full-on Blaine mode, sorting through an old box of theater programs, silly notes and mementos, hugging his knees to his chest as he re-watches old Warbler rehearsal and performance videos.

On those days he considers calling Blaine, or texting, anything to connect and get them riled up, get them back into their thing, to get Blaine thinking about _him,_ but he never follows through. On these _all day long_ days he'll turn off his phone, or, if necessary, march down the hall to 31B and ask Mr. Walker to hang on to it until the morning. He does this because on those days, calling Blaine is dangerous. On those days, he could lose everything.

The last day like that was years ago—two, maybe. As usual, nothing specific brought it on, but by the end of the day he was a complete wreck, thumbing over Blaine's name in the contact list on his phone.

He tests the memory of that last day now, runs it through and around his mind. He expects it to taste like baker's chocolate and go down hard, but he finds none of that. It doesn't feel pathetic anymore, all the pining and fantasizing; their confessions have already begun to ease the pain of old habits and disappointments. What does it matter, anyway? They're here now, aren't they?

Blaine wakes suddenly, eyes big and searching. As if on cue, he says, "You're still here."

"Is there anywhere else?"

Blaine's smile reaches all the way to his eyes and his arms tighten around Kurt, pulling him in, close, still closer, and it's good, it's very good. He can feel Blaine's excitement buzzing beneath his skin, can practically hear his mind bursting with little revelations– _Love! Possibilities! Sex without limits!_

He presses his face into Blaine's chest and giggles at the thought, his mouth right over Blaine's heart.

"What?" Blaine asks. His voice is light and teasing, but his grip is sure and firm.

"I can hear you thinking."

"You're a mind-reader now?"

"I can hear some version of what you're _probably_ thinking," Kurt says. "There are a lot of exclamation points."

Blaine chuckles and kisses the top of Kurt's head. Kurt feels the affection all the way down to his toes. He allows himself to love this moment, to revel in it, to let it be _all_ wonderful and deserved, not the slightest bit bittersweet.

"What did you dream?" Kurt asks.

"Who needs dreams?"

Blaine's words flip a switch. Kurt lifts his head and crushes Blaine's lips with his own. He licks at Blaine's bottom lip and then Blaine's hands are on the back of his head, pulling him down, taking him in. They suck in each other's gasps and moans, swallow contented sighs and let them slide down their throats and seep into their bones. There is only sweetness and want now, the kind of want that makes a person feel strong, beautiful, worthy, the kind of want that is _returned._

It feels like a first kiss.

"Hi," Blaine says. One of his hands is at the back of Kurt's neck, and the other presses into the small of his back. Cheeks flushed, eyes dancing, mouth curved into a soft smile, Blaine is the very definition of beauty.

"How... how do you do that? Take my breath away after all this time?" Kurt asks.

"I don't know, but I'm profoundly grateful for whatever it is," Blaine replies.

Kurt burrows in and pushes close. They are quiet, content to just _wallow._ To be in Blaine's arms _and_ to know his heart is bliss to Kurt, and he's quite sure he never really understood the meaning of that word until now.

Without thinking, he begins to sing. Softly at first, just a few words, then humming. There are words whispered on Blaine's skin. _["Something that simply mystifies me..."](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bejmPkV_GLg)_

Blaine's breath catches, and Kurt knows he recognizes the song. He sings a bit louder, offers up a phrase or two, and considers seeing it all the way through to the end.

 _"Tell me, why should it be, you have the power to hypnotize me? Let me, live 'neath your spell, do do that voodoo that you do so well,"_ he sings.

Kurt pushes up and rolls himself on top of Blaine, who steadies him with both arms wrapped securely around his back. When he scoots up a bit to meet Blaine's eyes, he can feel Blaine getting hard, his muscles taut, his body strong and willing.

Kurt looks down at him, eyes sleepy and warm and so, so happy, and finishes the song. _"For you do, something to me, that nobody else could do."_

Blaine beams. "Tell me again," he says.

"You are so in love with me," Kurt says. "And I am so in love with you."

Blaine trails two fingers down Kurt's cheek, grabs his chin and pulls him in for a kiss. Deep and unrelenting, then hard little nips at his bottom lip and under his chin; this is Blaine staking his claim. And with every push back, Kurt goes willingly, sinking deeper into him. He lets Blaine take all of his weight and hold him tight. They're both hard now, but in no hurry. They'll get to that. They'll get to everything.

Kurt pulls back to catch his breath and says, "I adore you."

Blaine's whole faces lights up. "Thank _God."_

"I don't want to move."

"So don't."

"Would you hold me all day?" Kurt asks. He feels light-headed, giddy with the knowledge that he can ask for what he wants without fear of rejection, that he can have this.

"Oh, please, _yes."_

Blaine rolls them, slips his hands out from underneath Kurt and places them on either side of his head. Kurt wiggles, settling down into the rumpled linens. "I like this... looking up at you."

Their kiss is a tease, a promise of things to come, as Blaine dips and pulls back, swoops down to nibble at Kurt's shoulder. When he comes back up they've already started rocking. He can feel Blaine's cock against his stomach, and reaches down to adjust them both for what's next. It's a slow build, a perfect, sweet torture, as if they've practiced this moment in dreams both day and night.

Kurt bucks up, twists his hips and spreads his legs a bit. Just then Blaine stops moving. He runs two fingers through Kurt's hair, brushes the tip of his ear and moves down, the two fingers gently pinching Kurt's earlobe. He looks down at Kurt, his face at once awed and worried. "I want you to know... about Liam, I—"

"Let's not. Not right now, okay? Just keep going."

Blaine hesitates for the briefest of moments and then starts up again, this time with purpose. He's holding Kurt down with his weight, with the motion of his hips. It's fast and delicious and everything Kurt wants.

_How does he know me so well, like we're old lovers, when we've only just begun? How does he give me what I want before the thought even occurs to me?_

Kurt lifts one knee, shifting the angle just so. They're both panting now, bodies still in rhythm but faster, still faster, the drag made easier by sweat. There's so much to say, so much to ask of each other, but instead they do this. Instead, there is friction, and heat, and the slide of bodies so perfectly matched.

There are no words now; just huffed breath and _uh uh uh._ Kurt's hands press into Blaine's back. He loves the sounds, the squishes, the skin. He loves the knock of the mattress hitting the wall, Blaine's grunts as he pushes them closer to the edge. He loves all of it.

It's over in minutes, Kurt tipping first and Blaine following seconds after, backs arching, hands gripping, muscles straining until they both give in and give over to it.

When Blaine can move, he pushes himself up and scoots down the bed until he can comfortably rest his head on Kurt's belly. Kurt plays with his sweat-soaked curls and says, "How's your head? All better?"

Blaine laughs into Kurt's skin. "I woke up with a dull ache. But, uh, after that... yeah, it's gone now."

"That's good. I was worried about you, love."

 _"Love,"_ Blaine echoes, twisting the word in his mouth as if testing the feel of it on his tongue.

"Is that okay?" Kurt asks.

Blaine nods, buries his face in Kurt's skin and rests his palm flat over Kurt's belly button. His fingers play with the soft hair trailing down, and Kurt can hear Blaine take him in, smell him, all the sex and sweat and yesterday's soap.

"I don't remember you getting migraines," Kurt says. "Just headaches from time to time."

"It started a few years ago. A gift from my mother."

"How does she deal with them?"

"Naughty little pills. They don't really work, not for a full-on migraine, but she takes them anyway," Blaine replies. "Liam says—"

Blaine tenses up. Kurt isn't ready for Liam and Paul to enter this dreamy, all-I-ever-wanted Sunday morning bubble they've created, but he asks anyway. "What does Liam say?"

"He says I need to learn to meditate."

"You? Meditate?" Kurt's giggles turn in to full-on guffaws, forcing Blaine to sit up.

"What?"

"I just can't imagine it," Kurt says, pushing up on his elbows.

"I can meditate. I _can."_

Kurt twists his smile into a smirk and says, "Total silence. Sitting still for longer than ten minutes—"

"I could work up to it... _what?"_

"Nothing. Let's get you a book, or a video, or a guru or something," Kurt says, pushing his toes into Blaine's thighs.

"A guru?"

"I bet we could find one around here."

"I'm sure you're right. Probably a dozen."

"A whole set. A guru set," Kurt teases. He loves this, the back and forth and the lazy ease of it all. It's intimate in a way they've never been before, but also entirely familiar. "Do you have to work today?"

"Tomorrow. But there's this thing tonight, at the Encantado. I should make an appearance," Blaine says. "Come with me?"

"Yes."

"No hesitation, huh?"

"No."

"I like that."

"Me too."

Blaine syncs his body up to Kurt, hip to hip. He picks up Kurt's hand and plays with it as he talks, threading their fingers together and then pulling them apart.

"It's an industry party, music execs mostly. Nothing official. Most of the guests are old friends of Mitchell," Blaine explains.

"Can we invite Deidre?"

"Sure, but—they've been up in Taos all weekend, some sort of spiritual retreat, so I have no idea what the mood will be."

"In other words, get Deidre to be less 'Deidre'?"

"Is that even possible?" Blaine asks.

"Depends. If she has sufficient motivation, maybe."

"We don't have to be there until late, which means we have about..." Blaine looks over at the bedside digital clock, "... nine hours to kill."

"Or use wisely," Kurt says, swinging their clasped hands back and forth between them.

"Or use wisely."

Kurt squeezes Blaine's hand and holds their clasped hands to his chest. "Are you going to sex me all day long, Blaine Anderson?"

"I'd sure like to," Blaine replies. "But first—I do think we should talk about this."

"You mean you want to talk about them."

"This is huge, Kurt. It's everything," Blaine starts. "But it's also a big mess, and we have to do this right—"

"Could we wait until later, just a few hours?" Kurt says. He lets go of Blaine's hand and props himself up on one elbow, his right hand tracing circles on Blaine's arms. "I only just got you."

Blaine stills Kurt's hand, raises Kurt's fingers to his lips and kisses the tips. "You've always had me."

"That's not what—"

"Shh. Of course. We'll talk later."

"Thank you."

Kurt knows he's avoiding the inevitable, but it's too much to think about—leaving Paul, possibly leaving New York, possibly _not_ leaving New York; becoming more of everything that matters. He can't think about all of that _and_ process this remarkable, precious gift that is Blaine Anderson, loving him.

From somewhere across the room he hears the telltale chirp of an incoming text message, probably from Paul. It could mean anything: Paul misses him, Paul needs Kurt to help him rally, Paul has news about the deal. He hasn't been reading _The New York Times_ , or listening to NPR or reading the blogs, so he has no idea if they've made any progress in Washington. The bill is so vital, so much a part of his relationship with Paul, it seems strange to be so disconnected from it now.

Kurt slides out of bed to retrieve his phone, and is both relieved and slightly disappointed to find the text isn't from Paul. Why did he ever think their situation was okay, with Paul gone more often than not and Kurt working all hours? He scrolls through the message, and Blaine motions for him to come back to bed. Kurt takes his phone with him and hands it to Blaine.

"Deidre. Apparently she's going for contrite today," Kurt says.

Blaine reads her message. "Ten Thousand Waves?"

"It's a Japanese spa just up the mountain. She stays up there whenever she's in town. I've never been."

"She must feel really guilty."

"We don't have to go. We could just stay in bed all day—"

Blaine wiggles his eyebrows and says, "Or we could indulge in a little hot tub sex—"

"Hmm... wait. No. You can't be the first person to get that idea, which means other people have done it."

"Let's not think too hard about it or we'll never get in the water," Blaine says, handing Kurt his phone. "If you're into it, text her back and tell her we'll go. We're due for a celebration, right?"

Kurt looks up from his phone, takes in Blaine's gorgeous, carefree smile, and for the very first time lets his heartbeat pick up speed without concern; he lets the goosebumps rise on his skin, lets the butterflies fly free in his belly. He's allowed. It's supposed to feel this way, this crazy, inevitable, life-altering love. No more hiding, or pretending his feelings aren't real, or worthy, or true. This is that feeling: Blaine under his skin and in his veins. He'll show him all of it now.

He leans in for a kiss, his lips just a breath away from Blaine's, and says, "You wreck me, in the best possible way."

Blaine kisses him quickly on the lips. "Soooo... yes, then?"

"Yes."

\--

Passing through the carved wooden doors, Kurt is pleasantly surprised by the sophisticated, natural beauty of Ten Thousand Waves. He marvels at the wooden pagodas, the winding paths lined with wildflowers, the bright orange and golden koi swimming in clean, clear ponds.

"Wow," Blaine says, looking at the photos of tubs near the reception desk.

"What is wrong with me? This place is amazing. I should have stayed here instead of the Eldorado," Kurt says.

"But then we would have missed each other," Blaine says, tugging on Kurt's hand.

"Maybe," Kurt replies with a soft smile. Before Blaine can respond, a fresh-faced girl wearing no make-up and a Ten Thousand Waves t-shirt, greets them.

"Welcome to the Waves. Please sign in. Are you here for tubs or treatments?" she asks.

"Both. Our friend booked it for us. Deidre Alexander?"

Her face scrunches up before she can stop herself, and then she quickly looks down to hide it. Kurt rests his arms on the counter and whispers, "We're not terrible. I promise."

The girl looks up from the appointment calendar, her cheeks pink, and says, "I'm sorry. I just... I've never met anyone like her before."

Blaine laughs, slides the sign-in book over to Kurt and says, "Me either. Maybe we need to start a club: People Who Met Deidre Alexander and Lived to Tell About It."

The girl relaxes and says, "I'm Lou, by the way. I take it this is your first time at the Waves?"

"Yes, because we're idiots," Kurt says.

Lou giggles and launches into the rundown of their day, then asks for their driver's licenses. She hands each of them a cream-colored cotton kimono, rolled up neatly with its belt wrapped around it. A small locker key with a numbered tile is pinned to each belt.

"Your first tub starts in twenty minutes, so you have plenty of time. Just walk out that door, make a left, and you'll find the men's room. Come back and let me know you're ready and I'll give you the key to Shoji."

"Thank you. Will you come look for us if we get lost?" Blaine asks, putting on the charm.

"Oh, I... you won't get lost—"

Kurt smiles at Lou and says, "Ignore him. You've been so helpful. Thanks!"

Blaine winks at Lou and takes Kurt's hand, guiding him through the next set of doors.

"You're always so flirty when you're happy," Kurt teases.

"I only use my powers for good," Blaine replies. "She's totally going to look the other way when we return the key with crazy happy sex smiles on our faces."

Kurt's breath hitches. "Blaine, these tubs are _outdoor—"_

"So we'll be quiet. Or at least try to be."

"And 'crazy happy sex smiles?' Is that a thing?"

"Not yet. I just made it up. It's when you feel super relaxed and goofy at the same time. Like you didn't just have amazing sex, you had amazing sex with someone you love. Imagine the Buddha's face after he got high and then got laid."

Kurt looks around at the Japanese-inspired architecture and design. There are Buddha statues everywhere: tiny Buddhas hidden among succulent plants, personal shrine-sized Buddhas being used as doorstops, a large Buddha holding court in the resting area.

"First to find that expression on one of the Buddha statues pays for drinks tonight," Kurt says.

"I would have bought anyway."

"Or tried to," Kurt says. He turns to face Blaine, leans up against the wall next to the Men's Changing Room sign and puts on his best coy smile. "And have you seen this crazy happy sex smile on me?"

Blaine nods, comes in close and says, "Once."

"When?"

"The first night. In the hallway... after."

"Right. So it's the same smile _you_ had, then?"

"The very one."

They make quick work of showering and changing into their kimonos and rubber sandals. Kurt loves the smell of the yuzu shampoo, the sound of rippling water, the feeling of soft organic cotton against his skin.

After Lou explains how everything works, hands Blaine the key to Shoji and gives him directions, Blaine asks, "Lou–is it short for Louise?"

"Lou Ann."

"Lou Ann. Pretty name. Thank you so much, Lou."

Again, he takes Kurt by the hand and leads him away.

"You're just awful. You're encouraging her to crush on a gay man just so you can get in my pants without repercussions," Kurt says.

"You're not wearing pants," Blaine says, guiding him on the charming, stone-covered path. "Besides, every girl needs a gay crush. We're often cute, always fun, and we're not thinking about their boobs while we pretend to listen to their life stories. We're awesome."

"True."

It's all so light and relaxed between them; so much so that Kurt is shocked when, mere moments after entering the Shoji suite, Blaine is on him, full-force: Blaine's hands cupping Kurt's ass, tugging at the belt of his robe, sliding up his chest like he's art, like he a fucking wonder. It's as if he left charming Blaine on the other side of the wooden door because this is first-time Blaine, desperate Blaine; this is too-hot-to-resist-even-though-it-will-surely-ruin-my-life Blaine.

They're naked before Kurt can really register what's happening, or take in their surroundings. Blaine has him in a tight hold, one hand at the back of his neck as he kisses him like he's his _only good thing._ When he pulls back, he takes Kurt's cock in hand and lines it up with his own, and Kurt can't believe he still has the strength to stand.

Blaine says, "I'm going to get us off, and then I want to fuck you deep and slow, for as long as we can take it."

Kurt is so on board with hot, desperate, first-time Blaine, he doesn't think twice about sliding three of his fingers into his mouth. He sucks. He slides his tongue between Blaine's fingers and pulls them out of his mouth, wet.

Blaine wraps his hand around them, pulling Kurt in for a hard kiss. Then it's mouth on mouth, and Kurt mutters, "Shit, _shit,"_ against Blaine's lips.

The first orgasm is quick and dirty, Blaine's hand moving fast and sure. When Kurt comes, his knees buckle. Blaine, still hard, helps him to the wooden bench and then, legs on either side of Kurt's knees, brings himself off right in front of him. Blaine, still standing, bends over as he comes and lets Kurt take his weight.

He's had this type of sex before, this heady, too-fast, just-right sex that is all about getting off and nothing about connecting to the other person. With others he'd take a beat, straighten himself out and, after the appropriate niceties, leave to enjoy the benefits of stress relief and knots untied in the privacy of his own apartment. Now, despite the fact that this is all instinct and sweat, he feels closer to Blaine than ever before.

Up until this moment, sex with Blaine has been an expression of all they'd left unsaid. Burrowing his head into Blaine's belly, Kurt is thrilled to know that sex with his love can be this too, when they need it. Even their hot fuck against his hotel room wall was full of emotion and unspoken desires, so to get this base release and know that Blaine is so very good at it is a relief.

Moments later, Blaine, kneeling on a folded-up towel on the cedar plank deck, pulls Kurt down into his lap, and after mouthing the back of his neck for a few minutes, gently pushes him forward until Kurt's head is resting on another towel, his ass in the air and on display.

Blaine grabs and squeezes, presses his thumbs in and pulls Kurt's cheeks apart. He can feel Blaine staring, and giggles when Blaine mutters, "Thank you, _thank you."_

"You're welcome."

Blaine laughs and says, "I wasn't talking to you."

He can feel Blaine lean back and fumble around for something, and then suddenly Kurt has a lubed up finger in his ass as Blaine whispers unintelligible nothings into his back. Dirty? Sweet? He doesn't know and it doesn't matter.

It's not long before Kurt is pushing back on Blaine's fingers, trying to get back into his lap. Blaine pulls out, taps him on the waist and says, "Turn, baby. We're going to do this face to face."

Kurt stands up and turns just in time to see Blaine tearing open a condom wrapper with his teeth. He lowers himself onto Blaine's lap, and reaches down to pull, and tease, and strokes him ready. More lube and Kurt is raising up, and sinking down, waiting out the pain until he can ride Blaine in earnest.

"Lie back," Blaine says. He gently pushes on Kurt's chest, urging him down.

"What? I thought—"

"Just lie back slowly, until you're on the floor, with me still inside of you."

"Okay... I've never done it this way before."

"Good. I was hoping you would say that," Blaine says, suddenly bashful. "I haven't either. I wanted us to have a first, together. This is something I imagined doing... with you."

"And you never tried it with anyone else?" Kurt asks.

"I couldn't. I... Kurt... _Kurt—"_

Kurt steadies him with a kiss. He understands. It hurts too much to think about all of the lovers they've had, all of the sex they've genuinely enjoyed, all of the firsts they'll never share. But it never occurred to him that Blaine would save something for him, knowing full well it might well be a fantasy he would never see fulfilled.

Kurt leans back, grateful for his flexibility as his thighs stretch and his back arches. It's not that different from missionary, but with his ass high in Blaine's lap and his shoulders on the floor, it's different enough that he can feel the possibilities.

As if reading his mind, Blaine says, "This position is supposed to make it easier to last. And I want this to last as long as possible."

For what has to be at least an hour but feels like _days_ they get close, and pull back, and get close and pull back, Blaine still inside Kurt, Kurt hanging on by a thread. When Blaine tires, Kurt pushes up with his hips, riding Blaine from the floor, the angle strange and perfect and new. When Kurt tires, Blaine holds onto his hips and fucks him slow and deep.

Kurt mutters, "I can't, I just can't," too many times to count, and cries out just as often.

He loses himself at least twice, head turned to the side, body limp like a ragdoll, until Blaine squeezes his thighs and says, "Baby, come back, come back to me."

Blaine struggles, too, holding himself back from thrusting in hard and fast and ending it all too quickly. His moans sound like they're coming from a man past the point of no return, but he stays with it, holds them to it, sees it through. And Kurt is so grateful sex with his love can also be this: a slow, sweet burn that takes him right out of his head and into bright, sweat-soaked pleasure that aches in all the best ways.

When Blaine finally reaches down and pulls him back into his lap, Kurt is so far gone he'll do anything to come. "Can we please?" he asks.

Blaine just grunts and leans back, pulling Kurt on top of him. He winces, probably from staying on his knees for so long, and struggles to get his legs out from under him. Kurt lifts up, allowing Blaine to move freely.

Blaine stretches his legs, and then pulls Kurt back down. "Come on, come on," he begs. They are both desperate with want.

When he reaches behind for Blaine's cock he notices the condom is loose and slipping off. "Blaine, tell me you brought another condom."

"What? Yeah. In my robe. _Jesus."_

Kurt is off Blaine in a second, rummaging through the kimonos. He finds two condoms and over his shoulder says, "Optimistic!"

"Now that I have reason to be, fuck yeah I'm optimistic."

He's back on Blaine's cock in under a minute, but Blaine is already too far-gone. He's a begging, almost incoherent mess, cursing and whining Kurt's name. So Kurt rides him hard, pushing him over the edge quickly and then jerking himself off in rapid strokes, Blaine spent and useless, splayed out under him.

Sore in all the right places, Kurt slides off Blaine and rolls into his side. Blaine wraps one arm around him loosely and kisses the top of his head. In the quiet, they orient themselves to the space, to the air around them, to the sound of water and far away laughter. Kurt hears the muffled sounds of other guests in the adjacent tub and realizes what they've done.

"Lou is going to kill us," he says.

"I might already be dead."

Kurt laughs, and then Blaine laughs, and then Kurt smiles big because _this is them._ "We laugh," he says. This earns him a half-hearted "huh?" from Blaine. "We laugh. That's our thing. Our sex thing. We laugh in bed, almost every time," Kurt explains.

"We have a sex thing. I love that," Blaine says.

They hear a beep, and then Lou's voice over the intercom, located near the door. "Shoji, this is your ten-minute warning."

"Thank you!" Blaine says loudly.

"I don't think she can hear you."

"God, let's hope not."

Kurt says, "I can't believe we didn't use the tub at all," and they're laughing again, back to easy, back to friends; friends _in love._

Somehow, they manage to rouse themselves, clean up, slip on their robes and make it back to the front desk in ten minutes. Kurt averts his eyes, pretending to look at cucumber-scented candles while Blaine turns in the key and learns where they are to go next. Just as Blaine predicted, Kurt can't keep the giant, goofy smile off of his face—so he holds the candle up to his nose to hide his mouth.

"In twenty minutes you have a ninety-minute couple's massage with Paula and Rain, followed by Nightingale facials in separate rooms. Your last tub is One Wave, and you'll have to come back to the front desk to get the key."

"Thank you, Lou. You're wonderful," Blaine says, flashing her the smile.

"Umm... you have time, if you need to, you know, shower," Lou says, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Again, thank you," he says, tugging at Kurt's hand. Blaine's been leading him around by the hand all day, but Kurt is not complaining. The feel of Blaine's hand wrapped around his own is familiar, and today, today he is happy to follow this man anywhere.

Blaine is still guiding Kurt by the hand when—twenty minutes later, after separate showers in neighboring stalls—Paula and Rain lead them to the small pagoda where they will likely pass out from sex-induced exhaustion. How the hell are they supposed to stay awake in the most serene place on earth... during a massage... after _that?_

The room is soft jade and cedar, eucalyptus and sandalwood, soft music and the Buddha, always the Buddha. They are left alone to disrobe and get on the padded massage tables. Blaine, ever the gentleman, covers Kurt with the thin, soft sheet before he slides in under his own.

The tables are about three feet apart, close enough. Blaine reaches his arm out toward Kurt, and they touch fingers, just a brush, a reminder of how it all started.

Paula and Rain, both tiny yet surprisingly strong, start in on the shoulders first.

"You are super relaxed," Paula says to Blaine.

"I have Mr. Jello over here," Rain echoes, working her way up to Kurt's neck.

Thankfully, neither of the women follows the conversation to its natural conclusion. Instead, they ask safe questions: "What are your trouble spots?" "Are you just visiting?" and, "Where are you from?"

They both have the same answer to the last question: "Ohio."

Kurt is too relaxed to wonder why he didn't say _New York,_ or why Blaine didn't say, _I live in London._

The ladies share their opinion of the state, making small talk, but mostly they're quiet, clearly intent on massaging Kurt and Blaine into a coma.

They've turned onto their stomachs and are both receiving a most awesome thigh rub when Kurt opens his eyes to find Blaine staring at him. This time, it's Kurt who reaches out his hand, and Blaine who takes it willingly. It's a brief moment, but long enough for Paula to mutter, "Aww," which sparks Rain's next question.

"So how long have you two been together?"

They both answer at the same time.

Kurt says, "Seventeen hours."

Blaine says, "Three days."

It's the first time they've acknowledged their relationship publicly. Kurt feels Rain's hands still, momentarily, and then pick back up again as she moves down to his feet. He can practically see her next question in the air, like a thought bubble above her head, the words "What's the story?" in Comic Sans.

Kurt says, "Fourteen years, three days and seventeen hours, give or take a few months."

"There's a story there," Paula says, beating Rain to the punch.

Rain bounces on her heels and says, "I bet it's epic."

Blaine smiles at Kurt and says, "It is."

\--

Kurt falls asleep during his facial, leaving the warm cocoon of the treatment room in a daze. He wants to get Blaine, go back to the hotel and sleep for days. He finds him in the resting area, sound asleep. The teak chaise is built for two, so Kurt climbs in next to him and dozes off to the sound of people chatting, wind chimes in varied tones, and water bubbling in a nearby fountain.

He wakes to the sound of Lou's soft voice, trying to wake them. Kurt looks at her through half-lidded eyes.

"Do you want to just skip your last tub?" she asks.

"No. I'd like to actually get in a tub while we're here," Kurt says without thinking. "I mean... yes, we'll take our slot."

Lou blushes and hands him the key to One Wave. "It's just around the corner, much closer to the waiting area than Shoji," she says, her cheeks a bright shade of pink. "And you only have forty-five minutes this time."

"I understand. Thank you, Lou."

She smiles warmly at him, and Kurt kisses Blaine awake.

"How long was I out?"

"Don't know. Our tub is ready."

They walk silently, side by side, to One Wave: a sunken wooden tub, also teak, with a deck and benches. It's not as elaborate as Shoji, but the view of the mountains is spectacular.

Once in the water, Kurt pulls Blaine to him, wraps his arms around his waist and holds him loosely, back to chest.

Kurt is waking up. From the moment he ran into Blaine, he's been peeling off layers of sleep, wiping the film off of an old picture that tells the story of his life. Here, in this healing place, in this "Land of Enchantment," Kurt feels as though up until this very moment his life has been a very long dream, a dream in which he kept forgetting to show up.

"I'm beginning to understand why people come to Santa Fe and never leave," Kurt says. "It feels like I could be anything here. This place doesn't even feel real."

When Blaine chuckles, Kurt looks down at Blaine, eyebrows raised.

"What?"

"You don't like it here," Blaine says.

"I never said that."

"You were counting the days until you could leave," Blaine argues.

"I was counting the days because that's all we had," Kurt corrects. He fights the worry creeping in, pushes aside the small reminder that they are more than this moment, that they both have ties, and promises and hearts to break. He wants _this,_ without everything else. He wants this day, this moment, this life, to be all there is, and all there ever was.

"Not anymore," Blaine says, pulling Kurt's arms to fit tightly around him.

"No. Not anymore."

They stay that way for some time, silent, until Blaine turns in Kurt's arms and kisses him. It's a tender kiss, a kiss that says, _I have everything I want, and everything I want is you._ Kurt feels himself getting hard again, and reaches down between Blaine's legs. He needs more than water to work him open, but he lost track of the lube in Shoji.

"Hang on," Blaine says, raising up and leaning over Kurt to reach for his kimono. Kurt sucks on one nipple while he strokes Blaine's cock, and this time when Blaine comes back in for a kiss it's sloppy and wet.

"Are we really doing this again?" Kurt asks.

"Fourth time's the charm," Blaine says, lifting to give Kurt easy access to his ass. He holds Kurt's head to his chest while Kurt fingers him open.

"Turn around," Kurt says, his voice just barely loud enough to be heard over the sound of the jets.

Blaine holds his gaze for a moment and turns to face the cedar wall, kneeling on the tub's interior bench. He bends over, resting his belly on the edge of the tub. When Blaine's hot skin touches the hard deck he flinches and says, "Cold, _fuck."_ The sun is low and the desert air cool.

Kurt leans in and covers him, skin to skin, chest to back, and rubs his hands down Blaine's arms, back and forth, for friction. Blaine relaxes, presses himself flat, and after a moment, Kurt whispers in his ear, "Better, love?"

 _"Yes,"_ Blaine exhales.

"Lift your right leg, like this," Kurt says, slipping his hand under the water and down the back of Blaine's thigh, pushing gently when he reaches the tender spot behind his knee. Blaine lifts his leg without resistance, rests his foot on the bench and looks over his shoulder at Kurt.

"How long do we have?" Blaine asks.

"I have no idea. I've completely lost track of time," Kurt replies, pressing soft, wet kisses to Blaine's back.

"She'll give us a warning," Blaine reminds him, pushing back on him a bit. "Just do it."

Kurt slips a condom on and eases into Blaine, but he has no intention of going slow. Within minutes Blaine is back to cursing, and Kurt is fucking him hard and fast. The fact that he knows just what to do to make Blaine whimper and beg, to get him off quickly and well, almost stops him cold.

_I know him like a lover knows. I know what he likes. I know the sounds he makes, the way his eyes roll back and then close tightly when he comes. I know how he takes it, how he needs it, how he loves it. I know his body, and now I'm sure of his heart._

They're halfway out of the tub, building up to it, trying to be quiet, when they hear the intercom beep, followed by Lou's voice. "One Wave, this is your ten-minute warning.... but, umm... if you need an extra five, that's cool."

Kurt picks up the pace, chasing it with everything he has. Blaine pushes back on him, and lifts up a bit to fist his own cock.

 _"Kurt..._ fuck! See... _ahh, oh God..._ see what a little charm... gets you?"

He can feel a giggle snaking up his chest along with his orgasm, and he can't do both, _he can't._

"Stop, just... let me... _shit,_ Blaine. _Blaine."_

He buries himself in Blaine in one, long thrust. "Yeah, that's it, baby," Blaine says, and Kurt comes hard, still fucking into Blaine, still giving him what he knows he needs.

His head resting on Blaine's back, Kurt keeps up as best he can, and whispers, "I am so in love with you."

With that, Blaine comes on the deck, his back arching, lifting Kurt up even further out of the water.

"Damn, you're strong," Kurt says, the words pressed into Blaine's skin.

Blaine chuckles and says, "I love you, too."

\--

The Encantado is luxe and gorgeous, and the outdoor patio Mitchell's friends reserved is pure heaven. They're all crowded around the massive round fire pit, some on the creamy, crescent-shaped "couch," some milling about, feet too close to the fire. Most are from L.A. or New York; all are "searchers" looking for meaning in wild sunsets, in the art and traditions of Native people, in this sacred desert. They're hoping to see a meteor shower, a sure sign that they're on the right track, that their lives are on purpose, that they matter.

Kurt sits next to Mitchell, one ear on his conversation with Adele and one eye on Blaine. He watches as Blaine shakes hands with a short, young, dark-haired man in brand-new cowboy boots he'll probably forget he owns after this trip.

"Who's that?" he asks Mitchell, leaning into his space.

"Shep Vasovic. He's the kid behind Scout."

"He doesn't look like a kid."

"He does to me."

"Scout. That's a record label, right?" Kurt asks.

"No. That's _the_ record label."

"So he wants Blaine to produce?"

"Nope," Mitchell says. He takes a drink of his beer, and looks at Kurt like he's noticing him for the first time. "Maybe you can convince him."

"Convince him of what?"

"To take the deal. Shep's been trying to get Blaine to sign on for the past year, but he refuses."

Kurt looks over at Blaine. He's talking with his hands in big sweeping gestures. Shep grins, pats Blaine on the back and they go their separate ways. Kurt's eyes track Blaine as he tends to Deidre, caught up in a pointless flirtation at the edge of the party. Blaine leans in to ask her something, his hand on her arm, and she laughs, really laughs, and there's that feeling again.

Blaine, so charismatic, so genuine, so magnetic, mesmerizes Kurt. He watches him order drinks at the bar, slipping a large tip into the giant tumbler on the rail. He watches him smile, take notice, compliment, listen.

Kurt lets himself stare, lets his body feel loved and important, lets the day be what it is: the beginning of _the rest._

He's so wrapped up in the gorgeous _everything,_ so completely sated with life that when Blaine returns, drinks in hand, he doesn't think twice about leaning over and kissing him on the neck, just below his ear. Blaine returns the kiss, this time on the mouth, and Kurt scoots back against the seat and closer to Blaine, his right leg almost in Blaine's lap.

"Hi," Blaine says.

"Hi."

"You're half asleep," Blaine says. "Let me take you back."

"No, I'm fine. Just relaxed. Very, _very_ relaxed."

Letting his eyes wander, Kurt notices a man—tall, mid-forties, definitely gay—watching them from a group of newcomers who are standing off to the side. When he realizes Kurt has caught him, he takes it as an invitation and walks over to them, squeezing between Kurt and Mitchell.

"You probably don't remember me, but we met last year, at the HRC Gala," the man says, reaching out his hand. "Jakob Winters."

Kurt sits up a bit, shakes his hand and instinctively slides his leg away from Blaine. "I'm sorry, I don't recall meeting you. But don't take it personally. I met a lot of people that night," Kurt says. "This is my friend, Blaine Anderson."

"Nice to meet you, Jakob," Blaine says.

His eyes still on Kurt, Jakob shakes Blaine's hand and says, "Likewise. I'm sorry if this is inappropriate, but I have a copy of _New York Magazine_ in my house with an article about Paul James, and I could swear you're in it. There's a picture of you and Paul in the kitchen you renovated, the one with the punched tin backsplash?"

Kurt freezes. He can feel Blaine tense up beside him. He takes a sip from his drink, then another, and finally says, "Yes, that was me. You have a good memory."

"Oh, I just covet that kitchen, is all," Jakob says, looking uncomfortable.

"I love that kitchen," Kurt says.

"It is a great kitchen," Blaine adds.

"You've never—did you read the article?" Kurt asks Blaine.

Blaine turns to look at Kurt and says, "I might own a copy."

"Look, I just wanted to say I'm in awe of the work you and Paul are doing for the community, and I'm grateful. I really am," Jakob says.

"Thank you. Paul's the crusader, but I do my part."

The tension is thick and awful, but Jakob doesn't seem to be motivated to move. Kurt is just about to stand up and make excuses for leaving the party early when Jakob says, "You're lucky, you know? To have someone like Paul. I think you should know that other people... we look up to Paul, and you... other people want what you have."

His words run like ice-cold water down Kurt's spine. Suddenly overcome with anxiety, he focuses on keeping his gaze steady, his hand still on the glass, his voice even. "I do know that... I don't need a reminder."

Jakob looks pointedly at Blaine and says, "I think you do."

Kurt is speechless, squirming, ready to leap off the couch and run all the way back to the hotel when Blaine puts his hand on Kurt's knee and squeezes. He turns to Jakob and says, "Haven't you ever loved someone so deeply it defied reason?"

Jakob is stunned; that is clearly _not_ what he expected to come out of Blaine's mouth.

"Jakob, it's amazing that you care so much about Paul and Kurt, but trust me when I say, as cliché as it sounds, this is not what it looks like," Blaine says.

Jakob stammers, "I have eyes. I'm not stupid—"

"I'm not insinuating that you are. I'm just stating a fact. This. Is not. What it looks like. This is something rare, and perfect, and _inevitable._ This is something we've wanted for nearly half of our lives. You think you're looking at a train wreck. But what you're really seeing is an answered prayer."

Kurt is torn between the urge to smack Blaine to get him to stop talking and a desire to climb right into his lap. Jakob looks down at his hands, mutters something Kurt can't make out and stands to leave.

"I'm sorry I'm not who you thought I was," Kurt chokes out.

"So am I."

Kurt doesn't watch him leave. Instead he gets up and walks over to the darkest edge of the patio, away from prying eyes. He can feel Blaine's approach. He knows what he'll say before he says it. Blaine takes Kurt's hand, turns it over and with his thumb, presses into Kurt's wrist with his thumb, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

"Baby, it's time."

Kurt sucks in a breath, lets it out slowly and says, "I know."

***

It's after two a.m. when Blaine slips out of bed, pulls on a pair of jeans, grabs a blanket from off a nearby chair and quietly exits the room. He can't sleep; the complete joy of the day is marred by words left unsaid, like the sound of a beeping alarm punctuating a lovely dream.

They had agreed it was time to talk about what they had done, and who they would end up hurting, and how they should move forward; but now it looks like that talk will have to wait until morning.

By the time they'd made it back to the hotel, Kurt was asleep. He used all of his remaining energy to walk to Blaine's room and dump his clothes on the floor before falling on the bed. Blaine slid into bed next him, kissed his shoulder, his hair, his hip. The heady smell of herbal massage oil still lingering on Kurt's skin brought him back to the day, the day to end all days, the first day of their forever. They'd waited long enough to have the "hard talk," but he couldn't bring himself to disturb Kurt's sleep. So he lay there, eyes trained on the rise and fall of Kurt's chest, waiting.

Now, standing in the elevator, he wishes he could skip to the next part, just pass right over all of the mess and hurt that is sure to come. He can't believe that his life was made in just four days, but he knows for sure now that he and Kurt are meant to be. _What you're seeing is an answered prayer._ When he said that to Winters, when he told him that he and Kurt were inevitable, he could feel every last lingering doubt leave him. He hoped it was for good.

He's not sure why he feels so entitled; it's never been his way. But he _does_ feel entitled... entitled to Kurt's love, his body, his future, his everything. He'll make amends to Liam somehow, and Paul, well, he'll find a way to apologize to him someday. He and Kurt have been so very stupid for so very long, and unfortunately included others in their cowardice; but damn if he is going to let him go now.

Stepping onto the roof—all clay colors and big sky—Blaine realizes he forgot his shirt in the room. The cool air hits his skin like a slap. He's always surprised to feel the chill of the desert at night, the way it comes on unexpectedly and obliterates the warmth of the day, as if the sun in all of its certainty never shone at all.

He wraps the blanket around his shoulders and tries to imagine a future with Kurt, a future with Kurt as _his._ He'd never let himself really think about it seriously, not since they were kids. Would he move to New York, or would Kurt follow him to London? Would they start fresh, someplace new? Would they get married and raise children together? Would they stay the course with their careers, follow new dreams, or dig up the old wishes and put them back together again?

New dreams and old wishes. Earlier that night at the party, when Shep asked for the millionth time if he'd sign on to Scout, Blaine shocked them both by agreeing to meet with him before Shep went back to L.A., after his trip out to Bandelier. Though he fought it for years, he's thrilled by the thought of finally doing what he always wanted to do, the thought of dusting off old songs and writing something new, something for Kurt.

The old songs are for Kurt, too. They are all for Kurt, which is why he kept his notebooks and sheet music locked away in a box marked "Taxes." This is also why, rather than share them with friends, instead of recording them and releasing them into the world, he played his songs at pubs frequented by people who would never ask him for more information than he was prepared to give.

He sang, _"You've got the kind of beautiful, makes the boys want to give up running all around. You know the kind of magic spell, makes the wild, wild horses lay down on the ground,"_ and was met with warm smiles and misty eyes on faces he didn't know and would not likely see again, faces of people who somehow knew his dormant heart like they knew their own.

He sang, _"Sweet and high at the break of dawn, simple tune that you can hum along to. I remember, there was a time when I used to sing for you,"_ and recognized his own regret in unfamiliar faces, shared knowing looks with strangers who doodled remembrances of unrequited love on cocktail napkins, their hands, an empty envelope.

He sang, _"I sit two stories above the street. It's awful quiet here since love fell asleep,"_ and felt the room fill with sweet nostalgia, bodies gently swaying, worn boots tapping, hands interlacing as those listening remembered their own sweet moments, their own top-down Friday nights, their own days of possibility.

And once in a great while he looked out among the sea of faces and saw him. _Kurt._ There would be a young man about the right age, with similar hair or some other shared trait: pale skin, broad shoulders, a quizzical eyebrow and pointed stare. He'd look at this stranger and see Kurt. He'd sing for him—not _to_ him, because that would be creepy and weird—he'd sing for the stranger, the stranger who was Kurt, with a voice charged with purpose: to make sure _this_ Kurt knew how much he loved _his_ Kurt... how much he loved the man who was _almost_ his.

On these nights, so rare and emotionally charged, the audience would be on their feet demanding more, always more, and he would stare at the floor and let their applause and praise wash over him until he felt seventeen again, until the memory of boys in blue blazers backing him up settled into his bones and he could look up out into the crowd and see _him,_ clapping and smiling and looking at Blaine as though he were the best thing ever.

Later, after he sipped on drinks gifted by his one-night-only fans, he'd turn off his phone and hide it in his guitar case for the long walk home, because nothing good could come from giving in to desperation in the middle of the night.

 _Maybe I'll say yes. Is it really possible to get everything you always wanted? It seems like too much, to get Kurt_ and _the music. Could I be this lucky?_

He feels something vibrate in his pocket, and realizes he left his phone in his jeans when he chucked them earlier.

**Kurt:  
Where are you?**

**Blaine:  
Rooftop.**

**Kurt:  
Don't jump. ;)**

**Blaine:  
Funny. Talk me down.**

**Kurt:  
Sleeping.**

**Blaine:  
Good thing I'm not really suicidal.**

**Kurt:  
Very good thing.**

**Blaine:  
Come on. Give me all the reasons.**

**Kurt:  
You have a great ass.**

**Blaine:  
That's supposed to keep me from hypothetically jumping to my death?**

**Kurt:  
You have a great ass and I want to touch it.**

**Blaine:  
Better. What else?**

**Kurt:  
You have a great ass and I want to touch it forever?**

**Blaine:  
Okay. You convinced me. I'll stick around.**

**Kurt:  
Good. I love you.**

**Blaine:  
Are you awake enough to find your way?**

**Kurt:  
Coming. Wait for me.**

Blaine looks out over the edge onto the ancient city below. As they usually are at this time of night, the streets are dead, just the occasional bar patron walking home. Even from here, in the center of the city with lights from adobe buildings fighting for dominance, the sky is full of stars.

He settles into a chaise longue, narrower than the one he had shared with Kurt earlier that day up at Ten Thousand Waves, and stares up at the moon. In Santa Fe it's so easy to forget about everyone else looking at the same moon, everyone who will surely find fault with his actions, everyone who will be shocked to discover he's not one hundred percent Dalton gentleman after all.

He goes through the list of people who will understand, who won't even ask him for an explanation. David, for sure, and Jeff. And Ryan, his friend from college who heard one too many of Blaine's drunken confessions _not_ to understand. It's an awfully short list, and soon Blaine is wondering why he insists on making mental lists to feel better when they so rarely help.

The door to the rooftop squeaks and he turns to see Kurt padding toward him wearing a pair of Blaine's sweatpants and one of his Berklee t-shirts.

"Shove over," he says, climbing in next to him. He scoots in close, throws an arm and a leg over Blaine and ends up with his body half on the chaise and half on Blaine. "Should I ask why we're up here, or is it best if I don't?"

"I come up here when I can't sleep," Blaine says. "I was just thinking about who will support us when they hear about us. I only came up with three people, besides Adele."

He slips his hand under Kurt's t-shirt and traces circles on his back.

"Does it matter? I mean, I know you're worried about what other people will think—"

"I'm not worried."

Kurt lifts his head so that Blaine can see him roll his eyes, and plops back down onto Blaine's shoulder, tucking his head in under Blaine's chin.

"You're not used to people not liking you," Kurt says.

"Just because they're angry with me doesn't mean they'll stop liking me."

"They might. I'm fully expecting judgment and recrimination from all camps."

"You would," Blaine teases.

"I'm a realist. You're not."

"Come on," Blaine says. "It's not that black and white. You're here with me, really _with me,_ and I think that it took at least a little bit of idealism to admit you love me."

Kurt lifts his head again, stares directly into Blaine's eyes and says, "No. I had no choice. It wasn't some perfect hope that made me finally admit it. There was no coming back from what we started. You see? Realist."

"Maybe I am idealistic, I don't know." Blaine takes a deep breath, unlocks his eyes from Kurt's and looks up at the moon. "I left Liam."

Kurt sits up immediately, pulling away from Blaine. "You what?"

"We broke up. _I_ broke us up."

"Please don't tell me you broke up with your boyfriend over the phone."

"I couldn't very well get on a plane, and I had to tell him, so I could—"

"When? We've been together almost nonstop—"

"Saturday, before the concert."

Kurt pushes off of Blaine and swing legs over the side of the chaise. He looks down at his hands and whispers, "So you could tell me you love me."

"Yes."

"Shit, Blaine. Shit. Shit. Shit." Kurt stands up and starts to pace around the swimming pool, the floodlights casting shadows on his face. "What did you say to him? Is he okay? Did he argue with you?"

"Not really, he just—"

"What is he going to do now? Did he cry? Oh my God, I'm going to be sick. _What were you thinking,_ Blaine? Shit!"

"Do you want me to tell you?" Blaine says, letting the blanket fall as he sits up and forward in the chaise.

"You should have told me _before_ you told him!"

"Why?"

"So I could tell you not to tell him!"

"I would have done it anyway. It was the right thing to do," Blaine says.

"No, telling him in person would have been the right thing to do. This is just... Blaine. _Blaine._ He deserves better than that, _more._ I can't believe... _Shit."_

Kurt looks at Blaine and shakes his head, backing up toward the edge of the roof all the while. "Did you... did you tell him about me?"

Blaine hops off the chaise and crosses to Kurt in two seconds. He takes him in his arms, squeezes, makes little shushing noises and tries to calm him down, but when Kurt pulls back, his eyes are wild, like he can't stop the worry. "Did you? Did you tell him?"

"No. He guessed."

"He guessed you were having an affair with your old Dalton friend, who you just happened to run into while staying at the same hotel?"

"He guessed that I was in love with someone else. He doesn't know it's you," Blaine explains. "He wasn't happy about it, and it wasn't pretty. I let him scream at me, and copped to all of it. The first mistake I made was trying to be with someone other than you, and he knew. He _knew."_

Stepping back from Kurt, Blaine steadies himself. He rests his hands on the wall at the edge of the roof, the rough stucco pressing uneven patterns into his skin. He hasn't seen this side of Kurt since the night he threw Caleb out of the bar. Not wanting to disrupt the New Directions reunion any further, Kurt had put on an air of relative calm all night, until the door to the apartment he shared with Rachel shut behind them and Blaine was met with Hurricane Kurt. He couldn't tell Kurt what he saw in the bathroom that night—Caleb pounding into a barely-legal, watered-down version of his gorgeous, amazing, perfect boyfriend—so he put up with the hurricane that was Kurt pacing and yelling at him, begging to know why, until they were both too tired to stay awake.

Kurt runs his fingers through his hair, pulls on the hem of Blaine's t-shirt and does his best to fight back what looks like a flood of tears. He looks at Blaine with the same pleading expression he wore that night all those years ago, asking for answers, willing Blaine to make everything okay.

"Kurt, they have to know. We never should have involved them in the first place—"

"What's that supposed to mean? You're saying I shouldn't have dated Paul, or anyone, or said yes to Paul's proposal, because I can't shake my love for you? Is that it? I was supposed to just wait for you and never love anyone? Never have a family, or anything real, just because we were idiots and couldn't get our shit together?"

Kurt is pacing again now, his hair wild. He wipes away a few stray tears before they have a chance to stain his face. "I have a _life,_ Blaine, a whole life... I can't just break that over the phone. I can't... Paul is in D.C., and he needs to know I'll be there when he comes home. He can't fight this fight alone. He can't deal with a breakup when he's so close to winning, Blaine. He can't. I _can't._ I'm sorry."

The truth hits him harder than the thought it would. Blaine knew Kurt may not want to tell Paul right away, that he might ask for time to sort things out, but this is so much more than that. This is Kurt in mourning for his other life, afraid to leave it, afraid to embark on a new life with a man he may not fully trust, a love he's only just received.

It's then that he realizes the difference between them: Blaine never pretended he could make a substitute life without Kurt, while Kurt tried like hell to make something worthy and beautiful of his life without Blaine.

"Baby, listen. Come here. Please," Blaine says, holding out his arms. Kurt comes willingly, drawn to him like a magnet, and lets Blaine wrap him up and hold him tight. "I understand it's not simple, and maybe I was wrong to tell Liam over the phone, but it's done now, and I don't regret it. Could we just... make a plan for you to tell Paul? I need to know what comes next. I need to know when I'll see you again, when we can be together."

Kurt is quiet for a few minutes, resting. He wraps his arms around Blaine's waist and pulls his arms up around his back, much like he did during their first dance at The Pink.

"I'll tell him when I get back to New York," Kurt says, in a voice so soft, Blaine can barely hear him.

"And when will I see you again?" Blaine asks, his heart in his throat again.

"Will you come to New York? Can you get away?"

"When?"

"After I tell him. Will you come as soon as I call you?" Kurt asks, lifting up his head. Blaine still sees worry behind Kurt's eyes, but he's calmer now, and there is no trace of anger.

"We have maybe two more weeks of work before her album is finished. I'll come as soon as we're done. Even if you haven't told him yet, I'll just fly to New York and wait. I'll wait until you call me and then I'll come for you. Okay?"

"Okay. Yes."

He gives Blaine a soft kiss and Blaine decides that all of their future arguments should be fought while intermittently hugging and kissing. He laughs at the image of Kurt squirming to escape Blaine's grasp, turning his head away from kisses with a huff. It's the first picture of a proposed future with Kurt that he's allowed himself to see, one not likely ever to happen, but he's grateful for the thought. They have so much to negotiate, so much to discover about each other—how they'll fight, how they'll solve problems, how they'll divide up responsibilities, how they'll stand for each other against the world.

_I'm ready for all of it, even if it means living with Hurricane Kurt, or any other less-than-wonderful side of my love, my man, my heart. I'll take all of him, thank you._

When Blaine gazes up at the moon this time, he sees what he's been waiting for. "Look up," he says, hand under Kurt's chin.

There they are. The Perseids: meteors shooting across the sky every few seconds, like dozens of wishes coming true. He watches as Kurt's eyes turn from worry to wonder. His grip on Blaine loosens and he relaxes into it, leans against Blaine without fear of falling, a smile forming at the corner of his lips.

Kurt kisses him again and says, "What if I hadn't said it back?"

"Hmm?"

"You broke up with Liam before you knew for sure if I loved you."

"I had to take the risk. I wasn't going to miss my chance with you again, no way," Blaine says. "I needed to cut off all other possibilities, and it wouldn't have been fair to Liam if I told you I loved you before letting him go."

They both look up at the sky. Blaine counts under his breath. "One, two... three... four... there's five—"

"Six... and seven," Kurt says.

"Eight—"

"It looks like a Disney movie," Kurt quips. "You know, the logo right before the movie starts?"

"It does. Nine... there's ten—"

They settle back into the chaise longue and count meteors while huddled under the blanket. With each one that falls, Blaine tries to push down the uneasy feeling that they might not be together right away, that Kurt might want to wait until Paul wins his fight. For now, he'll take every second he can get with Kurt and hope that Kurt too will be willing to risk everything for Blaine. Until then, he'll wait.

"Beautiful," Kurt says, after they've lost count, the first pink of sunrise coming up on the horizon. He kisses Blaine's cheek in thanks, as if he had ordered the Perseids just for Kurt. "I can't believe we get to see this."

Blaine returns the kiss, this time on the lips and says, "I knew they'd come."

\--

They've taken over three tables on the outdoor patio at The Pink: the band, Mitchell and Gretchen and Adele; and Kurt and Blaine with their guests, Deidre, Antonio and Sarah. Kurt is deep into a discussion with Adele, while Blaine listens to Sarah share Alex Marin House success stories, her face lit up with pride. He hasn't seen Kurt all day—both of them busy with their respective projects—which is why he's been holding Kurt's hand under the table since the moment they sat down.

He wants to lock it down, the next steps for everything, the where and the how. He wants a written plan detailing the logistics of merging two lives; he wants to make it official. But where he was living on the periphery of his life in London, enjoying Liam's friendship and loving presence but never counting on forever, Kurt is fully enmeshed in his life with Paul. He knows that the thought of untangling two lives held up as an example for all of New York to see is overwhelming for Kurt, and complicated, so he doesn't push. Instead, he just holds his hand and tries to stay rooted in the moment.

The sun is setting, the band's cue to move inside to the backroom and set up, but Blaine still won't let go of Kurt's hand. He nods politely at Sarah's enthusiastic tales and asks questions, but all he wants to do is lean into Kurt and nuzzle his neck, ask him to dance, find a corner and kiss him slow and sweetly until the ice melts in their glasses and their friends have all gone home.

"Thank you for telling me! It changed my life, too, you know," Adele says, loud enough for Blaine to hear.

"I remember. You said that in your Grammy speech," Kurt says.

"Oh God, you were one of those kids watching at home, weren't you?"

"Guilty," Kurt says, and Blaine doesn't have to see Kurt's face to know he's blushing.

"Was it your song, then? Did you sing 'Someone Like You' for days, thinking of our poor Blaine?" she asks. Blaine tunes Sarah out in favor of hearing Kurt's answer.

"You would think, right? But it wasn't. I love the song, of course—"

"Of course. Jesus fuck, Kurt, everyone loves that song. I don't need you to love it, too," Adele teases.

"But I do, now for different reasons," Kurt says, touching her arm like they're old friends. "I had a different song, actually. For, you know... Blaine."

"One of mine?"

"Yes."

"If you don't tell me I'll go mad. Tell me. Which is it?"

"It was ["Hiding My Heart,"](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wb4yZnwMQWw) and I wore it out," Kurt replies.

Blaine tightens his grip on Kurt's hand. He's only played the song a few times, both he and Adele on stools, just her voice and his guitar. The words were not lost on him, but then every song seemed to have a connection to Kurt; it never occurred to him that Kurt would associate songs with Blaine and what they hadn't let themselves have, and how they let each other down, and how badly he still wanted him.

Without preamble, Adele begins to sing. _"So this is how the story went, I met someone by accident who blew me away, who blew me away."_

She nudges Kurt with her shoulder, egging him on, and he joins her, softly at first, and then with more confidence. _"It was the darkest of my days, when you took my sorrow and you took my pain and buried them away, you buried them away."_

Kurt squeezes Blaine's hand and all of the tables are silent as Kurt and Adele blend their voices, singing everyone out of the day and into the night before them. _"And I wish I could lay down beside you when the day is done, and wake up to your face against the morning sun. But like everything I've ever known, you'll disappear one day. So I'll spend my whole life hiding my heart away."_

Blaine notices one or two heads popping in the archway from the street, listening, caught up in the beautiful, impromptu song. He can see Antonio speaking softly to Sarah, his eyes wide and happy. He could swear he hears Deidre say, "The boy's got pipes," but without her ever-present cursing, he's not so sure. Mitchell has a small smile on his face, but as is his way, is otherwise stoic.

When they finish, Kurt lets go of Blaine's hand and embraces Adele with both arms, laughing. "I can't believe I just sang a song with Adele."

"I'm sitting right here, you know. Just a person," Adele says. She's smiling, and Blaine can tell that she's impressed with Kurt's unpracticed voice.

"Sorry. Yes. It takes some getting used to," Kurt says, blushing again.

"It's fine. Blaine looked a wreck the first few months I knew him, always standing at attention like some military school brat."

"It wasn't a military school. It was a prep school," Blaine says over Kurt's shoulder.

Adele rolls her eyes. "Whatever."

She flashes him a big smile and then gives him a look. He knows that look. It's the same look she gets when she's about to surprise him, or prank him, or embarrass him in front of thousands of people.

"So lovely, I Googled you and I found some fucking amazing stuff," Adele says, pulling her phone from her bag. For a moment Blaine worries that she's about to show him photos or articles that feature Paul, but instead she's loading a YouTube video.

"Adele, what—"

"Stop worrying, Blaine. It's all in good fun."

"Should I be scared? I feel scared," Kurt says, trying to catch a glimpse of the images on her phone.

"Not at all. Here, I found this ancient YouTube channel, 'We Make Culture.' It's you and a gorgeous girl with an astounding voice. Truly astounding. Who is this girl?"

"Mercedes Jones," Kurt says, his voice tinged with both pride and abject fear. "I haven't... we were just kids. I thought she deleted our account years ago."

"Apparently not. I was mighty entertained this weekend, and I even got the band to learn this one," Adele says, handing him her phone. "Sing it with me?"

"Now? You're not serious?" Kurt exclaims.

"Why not? Don't be like that. It's just us." She stands up and takes his hand. Kurt follows her, glancing back at Blaine who grabs their drinks. He looks excited, and nervous; Blaine wants all of this for him.

The back room is full of invited guests, just a dozen or so beyond those who came in from the patio. He waves to June at the bar and points to the stage where Kurt is standing next to Adele, working out the song. Just then he turns to find Blaine in the audience and bounces up and down. Blaine gives him the thumbs up and settles in next to Mitchell and Deidre.

"Ladies and gents, Mr. Kurt Hummel," Adele says, and the room erupts into applause and shouts of encouragement.

Kurt bites his lip, but when the music starts, he's all stage and no fear.

Blaine laughs as he hears the first few notes of ["Shame, Shame, Shame."](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YEzQV75LDL0) Blaine can tell Adele is trying to out-sing a 16-year-old Mercedes; she must really have been impressed by her voice. He makes a mental note to ask Kurt about her, maybe show one of the old videos to Shep when they meet.

It's a big, fun song, and Kurt owns his part like he never stopped singing. Sarah tries to pull Antonio onto the dance floor, but settles for Deidre instead. A few of the guests join them, bumping hips and trying to remember dance steps they only ever saw in retro movies. It's the best way to start off the night, a bit of silly and a lot of awesome, everyone shaking the day away and smiling at strangers who are about to become friends.

Kurt hits the high notes like an old pro, and when Antonio turns to Blaine, eyebrows raised and says, "Holy shit, man!" he just nods and smiles.

When the song is over, Kurt hugs Adele and they giggle like teenagers, so happy and bright. Blaine whistles, and Kurt shakes his hips in response. He runs off stage, leaving her to her next song, and walks straight to Blaine.

He kisses Blaine first and then says, "That was so much fun, _oh my God!"_

"You were amazing. I love to see you like that," Blaine says, eyes shining.

"Thank you!"

Sarah is on Kurt in a second and soon his friends surround him. Blaine steps back to let him them flail, to let him be adored. It doesn't last long, Adele's next song drawing Sarah and Antonio onto the dance floor. Mitchell motions Kurt over, and Blaine decides to leave them be. He tilts his head at Deidre and motions for her to join him at the bar.

June is in full bouffant, her eyes lined in black like Cleopatra. She winks at him and says, "Champagne?"

"No. Margaritas. Two, no salt."

"I thought you were celebrating," she says, a twinkle in her eyes.

"Celebrating what?" Deidre asks.

"That he got what he wanted, that he's his, and vice versa, all that good stuff," June says.

"What's she talking about?" Deidre asks, clearly annoyed with June's big hair and cryptic, all-knowing self.

"Deidre, this is June. And she's about to tell me she told me so," Blaine says, laughing.

"Well, I did. So how about a little champagne on me, then?"

"Pour one for Kurt, too," Blaine says.

"But of course."

He's about to walk the champagne over to Mitchell's table when he notices Kurt excuse himself and answer his phone. Deidre turns to see what he's looking at and says, "It's Paul. I can tell by the way he's holding the phone."

Blaine watches, his irritation growing with every passing minute. He gulps down half of his champagne and sets the glass down on the bar. He's suddenly quite desperate to know what Kurt is saying. Paul is amazing—great-looking, accomplished, devoted, not afraid to love Kurt, to tell him how he feels, to promise him forever. Blaine's only just getting around to all of that; he's acutely aware of his disadvantage.

"Comparison is the thief of joy," June says suddenly, topping him off. "Roosevelt said that, so don't go thinking I'm a genius or anything."

"Franklin D.?" Blaine asks, his eyes still fixed on Kurt. He looks for clues in his posture, his stance, the way he grips the phone.

"Teddy."

"So you're saying I'm stealing my own joy?" Blaine asks, turning to look at her at last.

"Well, you're a human being. That's what we do."

"Who the fuck _are_ you?" Deidre asks.

"I'm June, as this lovely man already told you. And you, my dear, sad woman, are too wrapped up in the consequences of your own fucked up choices to listen to anything about anyone but yourself."

The guests applaud as Adele finishes the last note of "Forever Man"—it's good, but still not quite right. Blaine makes a break for it, avoiding the storm brewing at the bar. He takes Kurt's champagne, walks over to him and places it in his hand. Kurt, still on the phone, looks surprised to see him and a little guilty. Blaine ignores it and smiles. He knows what he has to do. He finds his guitar in with the gear, and looks over to Adele. Like June, she winks at him, and that's all the encouragement he needs.

Adele waves him over to the stage and says, "Hush up, now. No more chatter. We've got something unbelievably special happening right now," she says to the crowd. "Our Blaine has been holding out on us for years, but it seems he found his balls and now we get the rare gift of hearing a Blaine Anderson original."

From the stage he can see Kurt's mouth agape. He's off the phone in seconds. Blaine pulls a stool over and adjusts the microphone. "The curse of being short," he jokes, and the audience laughs off their secondhand nerves.

"I don't usually sing in front of people I know, unless I'm backing up this lady," he begins, nodding toward Adele. As he speaks, he tunes his guitar. "But I wrote this song for a dear friend when I first moved to London. He's the love of my life, and he's never heard me sing it. And since he's here tonight, I thought I'd give it a try. Are you all good with that?" he asks the audience.

Really, he's asking Kurt. He can hear Antonio's "Damn right!" and June's high-pitched hoot in the chorus of yeses. Kurt stays rooted in his spot.

[(PRESS PLAY AND IMAGINE BLAINE SINGING)](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HIdC1OP66GM)

The moment Blaine starts playing the familiar tune, the simple melody, the easy strumming takes him over and he's not afraid. Everything is open and on the table now, and he can share this song with people who know his story, his laugh; he can sing this song for Kurt without concern that he'll mess it up.

_"Sweet and high at the break of dawn, simple tune that you can hum along to. I remember there was a time when I used to sing for you."_

Kurt walks toward him slowly, tentatively, his hands in his pockets. He's looking at Blaine like he's seeing him for the first time, like he's a mystery, and Blaine realizes he hasn't heard Blaine sing in years, not since David's bachelor party.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Antonio wrap his arms around Sarah from behind as they sway together. June, who has hopped up onto the bar, swings her legs next to Deidre who, for the moment, seems to be less annoyed than usual.

_"Knew all the words to the popular songs, with the radio on full volume. I remember there was a time when I used to sing for you."_

Kurt continues toward the stage. Blaine sings right to him. Adele, who has been standing back with the band, joins him on the chorus, careful not to overpower his voice. A few people find their way to the dance floor, but most stay in their seats, listening, watching Kurt and Blaine as they both move toward each other, one in body, one in voice.

He needs this; he needs Kurt to know that they weren't just words. _I can't remember a time when I wasn't in love with you._ He needs him to understand that no matter how difficult the transition is, no matter how long he has to wait for Kurt to let go of everything he's built, his plans and his compromises and everything wrong and right about Paul and their love, he'll wait. He'll wait forever.

_"Forget the chorus, you're the bridge. The words and music to everyday I've lived. There's nothing I wouldn't give for one more time, when I can sing for you."_

Just a few feet from the stage, Kurt smiles in wonder, places one hand over his heart and sings along.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revamped Chapter 10, originally posted on LJ and S&C in two parts. Now, new and improved!
> 
> Thanks to Mimsy for proofreading and coding. :)

Home Depot is packed for a Tuesday morning. When they arrived, Kurt pushing an unwilling Deidre toward the entrance, he spotted one of the men from his paint crew walking out with what looked like four gallons of Lavender Morning _(ugh)._ Despite Kurt's frustration, he doesn't chase the man down to demand an explanation for the crew's daily no-show. No. He was past that, now. He would paint the damn kitchen himself, because that's what Hummels do.

That it took nine weeks, true love and a dozen orgasms for him to realize this is beside the point. 

_The point is, today I remember. Today I remember who I am._

Because the store is packed, they're still waiting for their paint order; which is why Kurt has enough time to wander into Aisle 15 and try not to think about the other, much more significant ways in which he has _not_ been behaving like a Hummel. He'll think about building materials instead.

He knows he should go find Deidre before she wrecks something, or someone, but the beautiful steel bars lined up in neat little rows call to him like long-lost friends. He runs his index finger down the flat surface of a forty-eight-inch crown bolt, so simple, so nothing, really, and imagines all that it could be. _Just give me a few hours, a jig and a pair of suede work gloves (blue, preferably, or lime), and that bolt will meet its destiny._

It's been so long since he actually _made_ something.

As his eyes scan rows upon rows of opportunity in the form of flat metal sheets—galvanized steel, zinc-plated, aluminum black lincane, diamond tread—he can hear his own ecstatic voice shining through a transatlantic phone call, dying to tell his dearest friend about finding the workshop space on Third Avenue, to make it all the more real. 

_"Blaine! It's just seven blocks from my apartment in Park Slope. And it has this old freight elevator and two crazy performance artists down the hall and seven outlets in my area alone and—Blaine! It's perfect. It's just perfect!"_

It was his pair of post-modern, brushed-steel deck chairs that landed him the job at Blue in SoHo; and though he created many pieces for the showroom in his first few years working, high-profile interior design jobs soon took precedence over time in the workshop.

Then, shortly after he moved in with Paul, he gave up his beloved space. He'd spent many late nights cutting, sanding, shaping and dreaming in that space, and yet, when the time came, he gave it up without so much as a tear or heavy sigh. By then, he'd moved on to this other life; he was practiced at giving up on dreams, after all. 

Whenever his old New York friends asked when he'd get back to the work he loved, he'd say, "I haven't found the right space in Manhattan." But he wasn't really looking. High-end furniture design is a risky, competitive game. Why would a sought-after interior designer in a saturated market give everything up to make furniture he might not be able to sell?

Despite Kurt's best efforts, the urge to create something of his own often bubbled up to the surface. He'd ignore it until he felt like he might jump right out of his skin, his hands aching for the familiar, repetitive movements, and say, "I need to make something beautiful." To which Paul would always reply, "But you make everything beautiful," missing the point entirely.

Walking over to the fine-gauged wire, Kurt has that nagging feeling again, like he forgot something—something he was supposed to do, someone he was supposed to call. He reaches out to touch copper, brushed steel: a reunion. 

Paul. Sweet Paul. Earnest, heartfelt, _clueless_ Paul.

He was genuinely excited to hear Paul's voice last night when he called, and thanks to that third drink, he let himself forget for a moment that he was about to break the poor man's heart.

_"Paul?"_

_"Hello, stranger. I was afraid Deidre locked you in the basement."_

_"Adobe homes don't have basements."_

_"God, I miss you. Can you talk? Please tell me you can talk."_

_"I'm at a bar, but yes. Of course. How are you holding up? What's happening? Are you getting any sleep?"_

_"Not much. Either I'm in a meeting or in session, or too wound up to sleep. If we don't come to an agreement by Sunday, it's not going to happen."_

_"Shit."_

_"I know."_

_"What can I do?"_

_"Just let me hear you."_

_"Okay."_

_"Tell me everything. I want to hear about beveled windows and crazy Deidre and how you can't wait to get out of hellish New Mexico. Tell me all about it."_

_"I met Adele."_

_"What? Are you kidding?"_

_"She's recording an album out in Galisteo with an old friend of mine."_

_"Really? That's amazing. Who?"_

_"What, who?"_

_"Who's the old friend?"_

_"Blaine Anderson."_

_"Blaine, Blaine?"_

_"Uh-huh."_

_"Small world. How fun for you. Tell him hello for me. So what else? Tell me more."_

He cradled the phone and told Paul about choosing between three doors, about the unpainted kitchen and the silver serving tray he'd found at the Nambé outlet store on San Francisco Street and willed himself _not_ to start his next sentence with, "Speaking of Blaine..."

He let the sound of Paul's agreeable, loving voice drown out the ambient sounds around him, the sounds of truly special people he'd just met who knew him in ways Paul never would. It wasn't Paul's fault. How could he understand that Kurt had kept the truth hidden all of these years, even from himself?

Then, he did the worst thing. He hung up on Paul, let the mere sight of Blaine preparing to sing take precedence. And, as his phone vibrated in his pocket, Kurt continued to ignore Paul's calls.

Later, after he nuzzled his face into the back of Blaine's neck at his hotel room door; after they kissed for an hour and then an hour more; after he climbed into Blaine's lap, naked, and teased him mercilessly until he finally let the tip of Blaine's cock slide in, just a bit, just enough; after Blaine cleaned them up, and held Kurt's hand, and kissed the tips of his fingers; after he traced pictures onto Blaine's back and whispered _love, love, love_ into his ear, Kurt sat on the edge of the bed and texted Paul an apology and a crappy excuse about poor cell reception in the bar. _Another lie._

As Blaine sang in the shower— _Forget the chorus, you're the bridge, the words and music to every day I've lived—_ Kurt somehow managed to put the lying out of his mind until just before he fell asleep in Blaine's arms. But then, as he listened to Blaine's soft, contented breathing, it was all he could do to push the sound of Paul's voice out of his head. _How fun for you. Tell him hello for me._

Shaking the memory off, now, Kurt backs down the aisle, eyes fixed on the materials he wants to twist and mold into something else, something new—and bumps right into Deidre.

"You left me in the ninth circle of hell. Do you hate me? Is that it?"

He laughs. "It's only paint, Deidre."

"People were staring," she says, gripping his hand.

"No doubt because you look like a Gucci ad and swear like a sailor," Kurt teases. "Is the paint ready?"

"Maybe? I went to look at the fucking flowers and got lost. Do you need something from this aisle?"

Kurt looks at her blankly. 

_Do you need something?  
Doesn't she know?_

No, how could she know that he used to live for these materials, for thick sheets of aluminum, for wire cutters and table saws and mallets of every size? He wants to tell her everything, show her renderings, drag her through the homes of old friends who still proudly display his "almost" and "not quite" pieces like treasures, like art.

_Do you need something?_  
Do you need to make something beautiful with your own two hands?  
Do you need a different Wednesday, or winter, or next year?  
Do you need something you left behind, something you forgot you loved? 

Kurt turns to her, takes both of her French-manicured hands in his own and says, "Let me make you a table. Or two. Let me make you two tables!"

"You want to make me—?"

"For the courtyard, to go with the wrought iron set we just bought."

"Kurt, of course, but—"

"I can do it! You know the stainless steel fainting couch in my office? The one with the lilac cushions? I made that," he says, eyes bright. "It was years ago, and I don't have the tools, but I'm sure Antonio can help me find someone who would have—"

"Kurt! Stop. What the fuck? First you want to paint the kitchen _yourself,_ and now you want to _make_ my furniture. Who _are_ you?"

She looks worried, like a little girl watching her first scary movie, afraid to find out what will happen next. He lets go of her hands, offers a small smile and then tucks her perfectly-styled blonde hair behind both of her ears. "Just me," he soothes. "Still me."

"Fuck. You're leaving New York, aren't you?"

"Did you ever wear your hair like this? Away from your face?"

"Yes. When I was _nine."_

"I like it. You have a sweet face," Kurt says.

"You say that like you've only just met me," Deidre replies, tugging on the hair behind her ears. "And you didn't answer my fucking question."

Kurt sighs, kisses her forehead and says, "You're running out of houses for me to decorate, anyway. You'll just have to resign yourself to being my friend."

She wraps her arms around his waist and gives him a quick hug, her head resting on his chest just a few seconds longer than normal. For Deidre, it might as well be a declaration of love. When she pulls back her smile is radiant. She looks him up and down and says, "Is the sex really that good?"

"For what?"

"For you to break up with your perfect fiancé, create the scandal of the season and move to another country in shame?"

He laughs, ignoring the truth in her question. "No, I mean, _yes,_ holy wow the sex is _amazing,_ but we haven't decided. I'm not sure what I want to do. I can't even figure out how to tell Paul, or when to tell him."

"Or if you want to tell him," she adds, which earns her his steely glare. "What? I thought we were best friends now."

"You're not ready for that, honey."

"Whatever. You know I'm right."

Kurt turns on his heel and marches toward the paint section, where Lucky, the six-foot-four college student who put up with Deidre's mouth and misgivings, has loaded two gallons of Wheatgrass, a roll of painter's tape, one roller and three brushes of varying lengths into their cart. 

"Thanks, Lucky. You're a sweetheart," Kurt says.

"No problem. You need some help with that paint job? I get off at three." Kurt looks up from the cart to see Lucky winking at him, trying to flirt. He takes in his Lucky's shoulder-length, strawberry blond hair, his slightly bloodshot blue eyes, and smiles.

"I'm too old for you," Kurt says.

"You're not, but I know when someone is trying to let me down easy," Lucky says.

Deidre catches up to Kurt at the paint counter, pokes him in the side and says, "So, can you really bend steel?"

"Sure."

"Dude! Superpowers? Are you sure you don't wanna hook up?" Lucky says, leaning over the counter.

"He's taken. So taken. _Double_ taken," Deidre teases.

"Stop," Kurt warns.

"Kinky, huh? It's like that?" Lucky asks.

"No, it's _nothing_ like that."

Deidre leans over the counter, right next to Lucky, invading his personal space. She touches his nametag, letting her fingers linger over his name. "Is this your real name, _Luck-y?"_

"Okay, okay. Enough paint fumes for you," Kurt says, dragging her away. "Thank you, Lucky!"

After the cashier rings up the sale, after Kurt covers Deidre's mouth to stop her from cursing at the woman behind them in line, after they load up Deidre's rental and head up Cerrillos Road, back toward the Plaza, Kurt finally lets himself think about the promises he's made—to Paul, to Blaine, to himself. He settles into it, this new side of him he can no longer run from: the liar in him, the cheater, the selfish prick who is lucky enough to get two perfect men in one short lifetime.

They're halfway back to Deidre's "godawful house" when he realizes she's right. It isn't that he doesn't want to tell Paul about Blaine right now; he doesn't want to tell Paul about Blaine at all.

\---

 

It's evening, close to eight o'clock, when Antonio pulls up to the Alexander house and offers to help Kurt finish the second coat. They're done by a quarter after ten, walls glistening, backs aching, brushes clean. Blaine won't be out of the studio and back in Santa Fe until at least eleven, so Kurt accepts Antonio's invitation and they head over to the Cowgirl Hall of Fame for two dollar beer (for Antonio), margaritas (for Kurt), and ostrich burgers (for both of them).

The crowd on the Cowgirl patio is young, yet distinctly "Santa Fe"–girls in peasant skirts and ratty band t-shirts, and boys in skinny jeans wearing more jewelry than the girls: turquoise chokers, hemp bracelets, crystal necklaces, Celtic symbol earrings. These are the transient Santa Feans, who, in a few weeks, or months, or maybe years, will move to Boulder, or Austin, or Nashville, always chasing the next experience. 

They sit in overlapping groups, laughing and talking over the sound of a local, pseudo-grunge band playing inside.

"Don't let me drink too much tonight. I have to head out to Taos early in the morning," Antonio says, as they grab a table next to the stone wall bumping right up to the sidewalk just barely at knee level.

"Normally I would say, ‘I'm not your mama,' but I don't want to get drunk tonight, either, so—"

"I bet you don't."

"Must you? I thought we agreed you were done."

"I'll stop, I'll stop!" Antonio says, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "I'm just feeding off your happy. You're more fun to tease when you've had something other than a stick up your ass."

Kurt kicks Antonio's foot and says, "You're lucky you're not wearing sandals."

"Sandals? I don't wear sandals."

"Ever?"

"I didn't even wear sandals on my Super Romantic Hawaiian Vacation," Antonio says, in his best game show host voice. He looks out over the crowd and waves a server over to their table.

"Don't sound so excited about it," Kurt says, settling in. He places his phone on the table, in case Blaine calls or texts, along with a pen and a small, leatherbound notepad he picked up at the Marcy Street Card Shop earlier that afternoon.

Reasoning that he needed to get practical and stop fearing the inevitable, Kurt had planned to make a list of all of the tasks he'd have to complete in order to start fresh with Blaine. He'd even jotted "FRESH START" at the top of the first page of his notepad. But when he still had nothing after staring at the mostly blank page for twenty minutes, he gave up and watched the paint dry in Deidre's kitchen instead.

"I'm not much for forced romance," Antonio says.

"Please tell me you didn't wear cowboy boots on the beach," Kurt says.

"Barefoot. I went barefoot," Antonio says.

The server arrives, a young woman with her hair in a loose bun through which she has stuffed two pencils. As she takes their orders, her expression blank and body rigid, Kurt asks her name. "Jillian," she replies, "but I prefer Jill, and before you ask, no, I did not come tumbling after."

Kurt says, "Of course not. Anyone can see you're a modern girl. You know how to turn on the damn faucet." This earns him a belly laugh and a pat on the shoulder from Jill before she marches back to the main bar.

"Nice," Antonio says.

Kurt shrugs and says, "It pays to have them on your side."

"I'm glad you came out tonight."

"Me too. I've been meaning to—I want to apologize," Kurt says. "I should have accepted your invitations on earlier visits. Your wife—Sarah's lovely. And the kids at Alex Marin House, and just... I'm sorry. I should have said yes more often."

"Don't stress about it. We're cool."

"I tend to judge things too harshly, and too soon. I don't _hate_ New Mexico. It's—I'm not sure yet, but I might even like it."

"Another couple of days and you won't want to leave," Antonio says. Kurt shudders, his face a mask of mock horror.

"It's unnerving, this place," Kurt says, fingers twisting the thin blue ribbon bookmark in his notepad. "I've been knocked off my center, you know? It's both exciting and nauseating."

"Are we talking about New Mexico or Blaine? Because there's no stopping the Blaine Train, magical desert or not."

"Antonio. The _Blaine Train?"_

"What? That's what he is—a train that was coming whether you liked it or not. Chugging down the road, following the tracks straight to your station."

"Chugging? To my station?" Kurt says, trying not to laugh.

"Listen, man, it's a solid metaphor."

"So Blaine is a train that travels all over the world—"

"I didn't say all over the world, I said—"

"And I'm a decaying building just waiting for him to arrive? Is that it?" Kurt is using his "just kidding" voice, but really, the analogy does hit too close to home. He was always waiting for Blaine. Even when he thought he had stopped—after that night under the northern lights, after he slept with the blond "boy-who-isn't-Blaine" just to get it out of the way, after Blaine left for London, after they couldn't get their shit together for the four-hundredth time.

No matter how many times he forced himself to move on and carve out a life that worked—a life that looked like something people like him should want, a life that was a fair substitute for feeling wildly happy, for being stupidly in love with someone who felt the same—he couldn't shake the sixteen-year-old boy mooning over the Warbler who, with the simple touch of his hand, had awakened his soul and cut him off from every other chance at real happiness.

He was always waiting for Blaine, no matter how wide his smile or how sure his proclamations, no matter how many lies he told himself to prove otherwise.

"And I didn't say ‘decaying,' either," Antonio says, interrupting Kurt's thoughts. "Sounds like you've got some boxes to donate."

"Sorry?"

"You know, boxes of old crap taking up space and messing with your life. Whenever I'm holding onto stuff from the past, Sarah says, ‘Time to donate that box, Antonio'. It's helpful to think of it as useless junk."

"So I'm a _hoarding_ train station—"

"Okay, stop with the train station stuff—"

"You started it."

Antonio sighs and looks out onto the sidewalk and across to the Zia Diner, to the map store Sarah loves, to the Jean Cocteau cinema, its age-old marquee dark for the night. Kurt follows his eyes and whispers, "I'm sorry. I sound like a crazy person, I know."

"I don't want to tell you your life," Antonio says at last.

"You keep saying that, but you _are_ telling me my life. Can we just agree that as much as you don't want to butt in, you can't help yourself? And as much as I don't want to be told what to do, I really do need your help figuring all of this out?"

Antonio's smile is so warm Kurt can't help but smile back. "You're a good friend, Kurt. I think a lot of you, crazy talk and harsh judgments aside."

"Thank you," Kurt says, playing with his pen. "After this is all over, you may be my only friend."

"Come on. Everyone makes mistakes. Besides, I can't be the only person on this planet who knows. You two radiate soul-love like a freaking neon sign."

"Soul-love?" Kurt asks.

"You're the one who feels it—why do you need me to tell you what it is?"

Kurt looks down at his hands, a small smile on his face. He knows. He knows all about how it feels to love someone across time, to hear his heartbeat over his own. But he doesn't know what having a soul-love _means,_ or how long you can have it before something goes terribly, horribly wrong. He doesn't know if it's fragile, or forever; he doesn't know if it's a guarantee of happiness or heartache.

He starts to say as much, but he's cut off by the arrival of their drinks. "Ostrich burgers will be right up," Jill says, before she dashes off to another table.

"Ostrich burgers?"

Kurt looks to his right and sees Blaine leaning against the stone wall, arms crossed, staring up at them. He looks tired, but good-tired, the way you look when you've been hard at work doing something you dearly love. 

"Hey! You're off early," Kurt says, leaning down for a kiss. "How'd you know where to find us?"

"Sarah," Blaine mumbles into Kurt's mouth, his lips full and warm. The kiss is a bit dirty for a public sidewalk, so Blaine ends it with a chaste peck and backs away toward the entrance. Kurt leans right to watch Blaine bounce up the stairs like a kid, denim stretching across his toned thighs as he takes them two at a time. 

"It seems Sarah and Blaine are getting to be good friends," Kurt says, turning back to Antonio. He raises his glass, and his eyebrows, which earns him a clink from Antonio's glass.

"Cheers to that," Antonio says. He slides a nearby chair over to their table, and waves Jill over to take Blaine's order.

"Thanks," Blaine says, and shakes Antonio's hand. "Get a lot done today?"

"We have a green kitchen, yes," Antonio says.

"Wheatgrass," Kurt corrects.

"Whatever. It's green."

Blaine plops down in the empty chair and looks right into Kurt's eyes.

"Hi," Kurt says, grinning.

"Hi," Blaine replies, smiling back.

"I was just thinking about you," Kurt says.

"I thought about you all day," Blaine replies.

"I was hoping you'd be done early."

Blaine reaches over and thumbs a spot under Kurt's ear. "You have a little paint on your—let me—" 

He licks his thumb and rubs the spot again for a moment, eyes locked with Kurt's. "There. Better."

"I missed you," Kurt says, taking Blaine's hand in his own.

"I like it when you miss me," Blaine replies, intertwining their fingers.

There's a cough, and someone is talking, but Kurt is suddenly, completely lost in Blaine's eyes, every worry completely gone from his mind. Lost, that is, until Antonio kicks him under the table.

"Ouch! _What?"_

"Are they always like this?" Jill asks.

"They haven't gotten to always yet," Antonio says. "New lovers, you know the drill."

"Right. So, do you want anything?" Jill asks, nodding at Blaine.

"The sign signs one dollar beer," Blaine says, finally giving her his attention. "I'll have a beer, and the ostrich burger. Why not, right?"

"You don't want the $1 beer. Trust me. I'll bring you a local brew, off the tap," Jill says, marching away before Blaine finishes saying, "Thank you so much."

"So what are we talking about?" Blaine asks.

Before Antonio can launch into a new lecture about trains, or soul-love, or whatever desert voodoo he wants to impart, Kurt opens up the notepad, folds over the page marked "FRESH START" and says, "Zozobra. Antonio was just telling me about this tradition, of burning a giant man in drag—"

"I said he _looks_ like a man in drag," Antonio says.

"Whatever. Apparently, we are supposed to write down our regrets and worries and somehow stuff the paper inside this giant Zozobra man and then burn him to the ground," Kurt says, pen at the ready. "So, is it just our regrets and fears of this past year, or—?"

"Hold up. Why are we doing this?" Blaine asks.

"So, you know about Fiesta—the burning of Zozobra is the final night of Fiesta, when Santa Feans burn ‘Old Man Gloom' to the ground, and start the new year fresh, free from the burdens of regret, fear, worry, negativity—basically, we burn up everything bad and wipe the slate clean."

"That sounds amazing. How do you get the paper into the Zozobra guy?" Blaine asks.

"There are boxes all over town. There's one near the Eldorado, if you want to participate," Antonio explains.

"Yeah, I do. Is this the thing Sarah wants us to come to?" Blaine asks.

"We'd like you two to come, yes, but I wasn't sure if you could get the time off. We go down to Fort Marcy field in the afternoon and have a picnic. It's a local thing. You'll like it. After he burns, we have a party at our house."

Kurt's heart flutters. _You two._ They are "you two," and "us" and "them;" like before, like when they were joined at the hip, blazer-to-blazer, but different. More. _Everything._

"I'll make it work," Blaine says, looking at Kurt with a question in his eyes.

A fresh start? A chance to bury old regrets and new worries, and wipe the slate clean?

Kurt smiles, squeezes Blaine's hand and says, "Yes. We'll absolutely be there."

\---

 

On Wednesday, Kurt sends the new door back. It fits, and Deidre likes it, but it's just not right. He thumbs through the pictures on his phone—koi, orange and gold, swimming in a pond up at Ten Thousand Waves; the blood red rug he left behind in Chimayó; the rows and rows of doors and the row of three he'd asked the guys to line up for inspection. Has it only been one week since that first night at The Pink?

Paul calls once more, but doesn't leave a message. Kurt knows he should call him, but he can't; their five-minute conversation rattled him so completely, he can't go there again. 

Not yet.

_Not yet._

With the house almost complete, Blaine at work and Deidre up at the Waves for a spa day, Kurt has time to figure things out. He could fill up his entire notepad with ideas, and plans, and to-do lists. But, just as before, he's terrified by the endless options and the finality of putting pen to paper, so the pages remain blank.

Instead, he accepts Sarah's offer to join the Alex Marin House crew down at the Hysterical Parade on the Plaza. They agree to meet up beforehand to wander downtown. 

Sarah slips into alleys and down ancient, narrow streets, showing Kurt _her_ Santa Fe. They shop, and laugh, and find the best leather, and silver, and art. He gently pushes her past the matchstick skirts and toward something fashion-forward but quiet and elegant, like her.

When she twirls out of her dressing room, shiny and bright in a white eyelet dress, Kurt revels. She's not worried about image, or labels, or public perception. She just wants to feel pretty.

By the time they wind their way to a tiny candy shop, Todos Santos, Kurt is in love with Sarah, too. She introduces him to her friend David, the proprietor, and starts collecting little candies in a small basket.

Kurt bends down to look inside the glass cases, admiring the wrapped candies in brilliant colors, the chocolate skeletons covered in edible gold leaf, the bite-sized marzipans shaped like chile peppers.

"This is art," he says, mentally choosing pieces for everyone he knows.

"See? You find the best places when you just keep turning the corner," Sarah says. She asks David to pack up six chocolate squares covered in crushed pistachio and tie the box with a bow. "A Fiesta present, for Antonio," she explains.

"Is that tradition? To give a present for Fiesta?"

"Not really. But I always do, because for Santa Feans it's like New Year's Eve and Yom Kippur and Winter Solstice all wrapped up into one—no disrespect to those who understand Judaism and Paganism better than I do."

"I wouldn't know," Kurt says, sifting through a basket of Our Lady of Guadalupe charms.

"So I give him something, just a little trinket or candy, or whatever, to let him know I'm letting go of my regrets, and starting over in _all_ areas, including our marriage. It's surprisingly effective," she says, bumping Kurt's shoulder.

"How so?"

"Let's just say that after Zozobra it's all very... _fresh."_ She giggles and Kurt joins in, trying _not_ to think about Antonio getting it on with this lovely flower.

"What are these?" he asks David, pointing at gold and silver candies shaped like human hearts.

"Milagros—‘miracles.' They come in many forms, representing the miracle you're hoping to receive," he replies. "They're my specialty."

Kurt says, "They're beautiful," his voice almost a whisper. He thinks about his heart, and Blaine's, and the men they are leaving in honor of their own miracle.

"I'll take that one, the one in silver. And could you wrap it?" he asks.

"For Blaine?" Sarah asks.

"Yes. For Fiesta."

They both watch as David places the silver heart in a small black box, wrapping it in bright red paper. Sarah's hand finds Kurt's own, resting on the glass. "It's perfect. He'll love it."

"Anything else?" David asks.

"So much, yes. Can you ship to Ohio?"

Later, at the parade, Kurt holds Sarah's bags and lets her stand on the bench behind him for an unobstructed view. The Alex Marin kids, dressed in their most outrageous attire, take pictures, and clap, and scream; they are at home in the wildness, in the _different._ The event reminds him of Pride—carefree people dressed in random costumes, making joyful, riotous noise.

It reminds him of a time when he walked the halls of McKinley in celebration, in defiance, in _honor_ of all the fabulous, and strange, and unique beauty in life. And of a new day, later, when he and Blaine would sing, unburden themselves in music, in declarations, in wonder, in joy.

He's let so much slip by, blending in and staking a different claim among powerful people with long-term vision who rock the boat in careful, predictable ways.

The parade is familiar in the most perfect way. Kurt laughs, and forgets about blank pages and unspoken confessions and instead texts Blaine about every little piece of awesome. He takes pictures for his father, and for Antonio, and one of a hippie football player/go-go dancer he'll send to Finn. He feels good. And right. And more like himself as each float passes by.

The city is growing on him. _Imagine that._

Slowly, as June predicted, he's remembering.

He's remembering who he really is.

 

***

 

With all of Santa Fe in Fiesta mode, Adele decides they'll push hard on Wednesday and Thursday so everyone can attend Zozobra; which means the first opportunity Blaine has to meet up with Shep is late Wednesday night. He hasn't seen Kurt since this morning: his eyes a soft gray in the morning light, his smile warm and lazy. It feels like it's been days, not hours, since he kissed the back of Kurt's neck, gave his duvet-covered ass a squeeze and made his way out to Galisteo.

Kurt has texted and sent him pictures throughout the day: Kurt arm-in-arm with the Alex Marin lovebirds, Erick and Wyatt; Sarah in a white dress, winking at the camera; a vintage VW bus painted in crazy colors, leading the Hysterical Parade; Native American dancers in traditional costumes; a pile of hot-pink feather boas, abandoned on the sidewalk; Sarah kissing Kurt's cheek. 

Blaine's texted back when he could, but the day was long and the work important, so he mostly just scrolled through Kurt's latest messages during lunch and dinner breaks, texting responses for each and every one.

It reminded him of college, both of them at schools they loved in cities that promised acceptance and adventure. They'd text each other several times a day, share photos of new friends and ridiculous strangers, of beautiful architecture and awesome bargains—pictures of _life,_ a life that didn't seem real unless they shared it with each other.

His phone vibrates again as he pulls in behind a Range Rover on Canyon Road, just a block from El Farol. He's not surprised Shep wanted to meet here. Mitch had told him once that the restaurant and nightclub was a favorite hangout for local musicians— _"Successful_ local musicians," he'd amended—but Blaine had yet to check it out. 

After turning off the ignition, Blaine takes out his phone to read Kurt's latest text and give him his ETA.

****Kurt:****  
How did it go? Will I see you tonight?

****Blaine:****  
Just getting to the meeting now. Wait up for me?

**Kurt:**  
Of course. Did you eat?

**Blaine:**  
Yes. I'll just have one drink and head back. Maybe an hour?

**Kurt:**  
Take your time. Just text me when you leave, okay? Come to my room.

**Blaine:**  
:)

**Kurt:**  
Really? I ask you to come to my room and I get a smiley face?

**Blaine:**  
Do they have dirty emoticons?

**Kurt:**  
I'm sure I wouldn't know.

**Blaine:**  
I'm sure you WOULD know.

**Kurt:**  
Just exactly who do you think I am, Blaine Anderson?

**Blaine:**  
I can't say. My answer is too cheesy.

**Kurt:**  
That bad?

**Blaine:**  
So bad you might deny me sex.

**Kurt:**  
Nothing is that bad. Tell me.

**Blaine:**  
You're the love of my life.

**Kurt:**  
Aww.

**Blaine:**  
?

**Kurt:**  
Is that your way of asking me if you can still sex me up tonight?

**Blaine:**  
Yes.

**Kurt:**  
Punctuation. Hot.

**Blaine:**  
Call me Casanova.

**Kurt:**  
8===> ).(

**Blaine:**  
Wow. Does that mean what I think means?

**Kurt:**  
Come knock on my door and find out.

Blaine laughs out loud. Here in the confines of the car, he can tell that his laugh is different, that it's a good laugh, the kind you only have with a lover or an old friend. That he is laughing at an exchange with a man who is both his best friend and his lover is not lost on him. This is how it's supposed to be. Deep affection; ease; a pure moment. He pockets his phone and makes his way to El Farol with an extra spring in his step.

He's on the verge. Everything is happening now, and it all comes down to Kurt. _Kurt. Love. His love. His._ He can't believe his good fortune; he thought for sure he'd used up all of his chances. It's enough to make him believe in God again like he used to; like a child believes, staring up at the night sky in wonder. He's giddy with it, with the sweet, unexpected delivery of all his dreams in one searing kiss.

Once inside, he spots Shep right away, his head bobbing along to the warm, complicated tones of the jazz fusion band just a few feet away. He's claimed what appears to be the best table in the house, upon which sits a bottle of Patrón and two large shot glasses. Even in this ancient city of no more than eighty thousand people, Shep Vasovic knows how to VIP.

He wonders why Shep is going to so much trouble. Blaine is really more of a music producer now, his performing aspirations long tucked away into a box of old letters and dreams. He sings backup, and plays guitar and piano, and makes good songs better. His own melodies, the truths that run through him and scream to get out, they're for strangers, for fleeting connections and singular moments of understanding, not masses of people.

At least that's what he used to tell himself. _Before._ Now, he's thinking he might actually say "yes." What does he have left to hide? He's no longer running, or wishing for another life. If he can have Kurt, surely he can have this, too, right? _Maybe._

Shep spots Blaine and waves him over, points to the empty chair and fills both shot glasses to the brim. The music is too loud for conversation, so the two clink glasses, down their shots and settle in for the rest of the set. The tequila goes down smooth, _too_ smooth, and Blaine makes a mental note to cover his glass when Shep tries to refill it. He has plans for tonight, plans that do not include dragging his drunken ass back to the Eldorado only to pass out next to a very flirty, very willing Kurt.

Letting the music wash over him, he imagines what it would be like to move people with his own music, beyond the joints he wanders into every so often, guitar and heart in hand; to share something so deeply personal with the entire world. It's been so long since he's been in front, taking the lead. Now that his heart is right side up, he can admit that he misses it. Not all the time, not every day, but sometimes—often enough that he knows it's still in him.

Shep doesn't waste any time on pleasantries. After the cellist promises they'll be back in ten, he leans forward and says, "Just tell me when you can deliver twelve tracks, and I'll call legal."

It's too abrupt, too final, and Blaine shrinks back. He hadn't expected this. It's a big step, _huge,_ The opportunity is so golden it feels like it could be too much, too fast. He really hasn't even thought it through yet.

"I haven't said yes yet," Blaine replies.

"So say it and let's do this," Shep counters. His smile is earnest. From his friends in the industry Blaine knows that Shep will treat him right, and that he has the best of intentions. Blaine couldn't find a better home for his debut album, really.

_Debut album._ It's been so long since he entertained the thought of recording his own music, much less aspired to make something great.

Before Blaine can respond, Shep chimes in again. "I told you I saw you perform at that dive in London, but what I didn't tell you is, I asked Curtis Fogg to track you down in the pubs, recording performances whenever he spotted you."

"Really? I didn't realize—"

"He's a sneaky little fuck, so I'm not surprised you didn't catch on. I'm not sorry about it, either, even though it does officially qualify me as a stalker," Shep says.

Blaine is reminded of Wes in that moment, of his eager request that Blaine join the Warblers _immediately._ It was their sophomore year, Blaine's first year at Dalton, when Wes stumbled upon Blaine in the kitchen after hours, looking for snacks. Being caught singing and dancing in the walk-in pantry was bad enough. Being caught singing and dancing to "Hot Stuff" was the absolute worst. But Wes never made fun of him, just made his case for the a cappella troupe and made him promise to audition the very next day. It was the first time Blaine had felt special, like he was more than his parent's projections, more than his family name, more than the gay kid who needed to keep it to himself or suffer the consequences.

Shep pours amber liquid into the glass in front of him. When Blaine shakes his head and covers his own glass, Shep sets the bottle down and says, "You kept saying no and I had to find out why. So I asked around, and when no one seemed to know, I sent Curt out to see if he could find the answer in your music."

"And did you find it?"

"I think I did," Shep replies, his expression softening.

Blaine looks at him, lets the silent stare between them go on a moment too long and says, "I don't want to leave Adele. Her album is my priority, and I'm supposed to tour with her next summer."

"Fine. Good. Anyone on deck to open?"

"Not yet."

"Why don't you open for her, then? Keep it in the family."

"It's not up to me."

Shep sets his glass down hard, like he's decided something. "Right. Listen, Blaine, I can get you all the way to Oz, but I can't make you knock on the door."

"I know."

Blaine is quiet again. He decides he can handle half a shot more, so he pours it and downs it, trying not to think about how—through practice, avoidance and denial—he'd taught himself how to hesitate. He's not that boy in the pantry anymore, thrilled to be noticed and appreciated. He's not the boy who sang to a beautiful stranger, full of hope and possibility. And he's not the young man who pined, and wished, and fantasized, thinking he had all of the time in the world. Somewhere along the way he learned how to let himself down.

But that was before—before the miracle, before _I'm so in love with you and you're so in love with me._ Now, now that he knows what it feels like to get everything he ever wanted, he's ready to reach out and grab the brass ring.

"I'll talk to Mitch, see if he'll help me with the demo," Blaine says finally.

"That's who you want, then? Because I can get any producer you want."

"I want Mitch. I'll record it here."

"Do you have enough for an album, or do you need time to—?"

"I have dozens of songs," Blaine interrupts.

"So we do a soft launch before the _35_ release, and then push hard right before the tour," Shep says.

"I need to talk this over with a few people. Adele, and Mitch, and... someone very close to me."

"I'll send over the papers. I need the demo by the end of September," Shep says.

September. He promised Kurt he'd show up in New York as soon as they wrapped _35._ Would Kurt come back to Santa Fe so soon? Would he understand if Blaine had to leave so soon after they were officially reunited?

"I'll let you know by Monday," Blaine says.

"I'll have my assistant email a contract to your manager in London, and overnight a hard copy to you. You're at the Eldorado, right?"

"Yes. Room 206."

"One more, to celebrate," Shep says, refilling their glasses. Blaine nods, decides to leave his car on Canyon Road and walk back to the hotel. He's only slightly buzzed, but not clear enough to drive.

Shep raises his glass and says, "Here's to finally saying yes to the best thing that ever happened to you."

"Finally," Blaine agrees, a smile at the corner of his mouth.

Blaine texts Kurt that he's on his way, but walking; and after shaking Shep's hand he heads downhill toward the Plaza. It's busy for a Wednesday night, with more tourists than usual and everyone in a celebratory mood. He picks up the end of the Old Santa Fe Trail, and crosses on to San Francisco Street when he reaches the Cathedral. He can see the Eldorado about ten blocks up ahead, and suddenly realizes he's walking the same path he took from The Pink that night that changed everything.

_Has it really been a week? It feels as though it's only been a day since my life was officially made. No, that was days later, when I finally told him of my promised heart, and he took my hands in his and confessed he felt the same. Still, it's a week since we gave in, since I came for him; since we forgot about who we'd become and remembered who we once were, and what we wanted and would always want, no matter what. No matter what._

He sees the two of them everywhere on this street. He sees Kurt's face, bathed in lamplight that first night as they walked by darkened shops en route to Deidre's house. He sees himself, stepping off the curb to run down the middle of the one-way street to get to Kurt— _faster, faster, hurry, faster, this is it, this is your chance, faster, don't fuck up, hurry, faster, faster._ And again, the following morning, walking on autopilot, two coffees in hand, resolved to take whatever Kurt was willing to give. He sees the two of them walking on opposite sides of the street, aching, drawn to each other like moths to a flame.

He sees them everywhere: San Francisco Street. A path in Brooklyn, covered in cherry blossoms. A weathered dock in Red Cedar Lake. Mercedes' basement. A staircase. A dream.

His phone vibrates, shaking him out of his reverie. As he unlocks the screen he thinks, _Hell yeah, I can write new songs—just you wait._

**Kurt:**  
Come to my room, but don't knock. Use your key card.

Blaine's heartbeat quickens and he picks up the pace. He's past the front desk clerk in minutes, in the elevator in seconds, and at Kurt's hotel room door before he has time to wonder what Kurt has planned. Whatever it is, it will be hot, and amazing, and so, so right.

He swipes Kurt's extra key card and smiles when he thinks about this time last week, when he was stuck on the other side of the door, begging Kurt to let him in. Now, just seven days later, Kurt is waiting up for him, for _him._

"Kurt?" he asks, slipping off his shoes in the hallway. He hears a soft moan from the main room, and the unmistakable sound of...

"Holy fuck."

Kurt is on the bed, his back up against the headboard, wearing navy and red-striped cotton pajamas. He's left his shirt unbuttoned and open, revealing his toned chest, and he's pushed the bottoms down around his knees. He's flushed, legs splayed as far as the fabric will allow, one hand working his hard, perfect cock.

"Is this how you pictured it? I wore silk to bed back then, but... _mmm..._ but I found this today and... _yeah..._ Dalton colors—"

Kurt notices that he's rendered Blaine speechless, so he slows up on his pace a bit, smiles wickedly at Blaine and says, "You said you wanted to watch."

Blaine swallows, his eyes fixated on Kurt's hands, as if he's sixteen and watching a man jerk off for the very first time. Kurt arches his back, lets his head fall back on the headboard and gives in to it, one hand on his cock in long, sure strokes, the other teasing one nipple and then the other. He's close, holding himself back.

After a few moments, Kurt sits up a bit. "What would you have done? What next? _Shit,_ Blaine. Tell me. Tell me what you would have done if you found me like this, if I let you—"

"Take off your pants. All the way," Blaine says, his voice so desperate and gravelly he doesn't recognize it as his own.

There's that wicked smile again, and then Kurt is pushing his pajama pants down to his ankles, one hand on each leg. He pulls them off, tosses them to the floor, and then looks up at Blaine expectantly, as if to say, _Tell me what's next._

"I... may I sit?"

"So polite. Yes. Sit," Kurt replies, hand back on his cock. Blaine unbuttons the top of his pants and pulls the zipper down before sitting on the very edge of the bed.

"No touching. Not yet," Kurt warns.

"Kurt—"

"Come closer," Kurt says. "I want you as close to me as possible."

"Without touching," Blaine says, crawling up toward Kurt.

Kurt's breath hitches. He watches Blaine's slow approach and says, "Without. Touching."

Blaine knows the game now. It's push-pull; no one is in charge. First Kurt leads, then he leads. They'll both hold back, and they'll both give in, taking turns, feeling their way. He can _so_ do this. He's waited his whole life to do this—not just for Kurt (though, yes, always for Kurt, _always),_ but also for himself.

He's wanted this all along, looked for it in others: an effortless sex life and a partner who is confident, dirty, a bit silly and so, so willing. He's wanted every intimate moment they've shared together so far, as if he's been checking off his fantasies one by one, as if he could see the future: deep, hot, desperate, profound. And silly, like friends, like _best friends._ He never doubted that he and Kurt would be compatible in every way, but he's so thrilled to find that he was absolutely right.

Blaine settles in on his knees directly in front of Kurt, his pants now riding low on his hips, revealing a pair of Kurt's dove-gray boxer briefs.

Kurt stares at Blaine's cloth-covered bulge, at the glimpse of trimmed black pubic hair peeking out over the waistband. His breath is so uneven now it sounds like he's panting, but somehow he manages to croak out _"Mine"_ as he reaches for Blaine's cock.

"Yours? Oh, right. I, ah, borrowed these this morning. I hope you don't mind," Blaine teases. "Or were you referring to something else?"

Although it seems impossible, Kurt's eyes darken even further. "I want them back," he says, holding out his hand, palm up.

"Right now?" Blaine teases.

"Right now."

Kurt resumes stroking, spreading his legs wider now that he can. He watches as Blaine sticks his thumbs in the briefs, ready to pull them down, and whines when he stops.

"Come _on,"_ Kurt pleads.

"Kurt."

"Yes?"

"I want something."

_"Anything,_ yes... what is it?"

"I want to watch you get off, and then I want to fuck you—"

"Yes, just, please—"

"No, listen. I'm not finished. I want to see your face when you come, and then I want to kiss you, cover you and let your come stain my shirt. Then I want to turn you on your side, open you up, press up against your naked body and fuck you with my clothes still on."

"Oh _fuck,"_ Kurt says, arching his back. "Were you always this dirty? Or is it... new?"

Blaine can tell Kurt wants to ask something different. _Is it me? Do I make you dirty? Or have you said these words to someone, everyone, anyone else?_

Blaine leans forward a little, drawing it out, careful not to touch, eyes darting between Kurt's neck, taut with pleasure, and the tight fist of Kurt's hand. "You remember, don't you?" Blaine asks. "That night, the winter before I left for London, the night you sent me a picture of the hot couple in front of the tree in Rockefeller Center..." Blaine looks for signs of recognition on Kurt's face. There's love, and desire, and promises of ever after, but he's still so unsure of so many things.

_Does he remember what I remember? Were there moments that meant more to me than they did him? When the boys were sweet, and felt almost right, did he yearn for me in the same way, then? Or was my voice just an echo? Did he get lost in the skilled hands of other lovers, like I did, when not-right lips were less wrong, and the ache subsided long enough to forget?_

"You walked me home," Kurt says, interrupting his thoughts.

"I... what?"

"You called me, right after I sent the picture, and I asked you to walk me home."

Blaine laughs—Kurt remembers it better than he does. _He'd_ forgotten that part, the part where Kurt said, _"I'm catsitting for a friend on 78th Street. Walk me home?"_

They stayed on the line for twenty blocks, Kurt intermittently describing window displays, a bad fashion choice _("a bad life choice, Blaine—fashion IS life"),_ a restaurant he'd like to try. Every few minutes Blaine would say, _"Where are we now?"_ and Kurt would rattle off the street number. Blaine had felt so close to Kurt then, despite the tension, the boyfriends, their looming futures.

Blaine says, "And it seemed like four minutes—"

"—But it was more than twenty-five—" Kurt continues.

"—And when you arrived at the building, you said you didn't want to stop talking—"

"—And I sat on the stoop and we talked for a while longer—"

"—And that's when you told me about your fantasy, the one where you're naked, and someone full clothed fucks you from behind," Blaine finishes.

Kurt stops, looks right into Blaine's eyes and says, "Not someone. _You."_

Blaine's eyes mist over, which causes him to snort at the ridiculousness of it all: he's getting emotional about one of Kurt's dirty sexual fantasies, simply because he's always wanted the starring role. 

Kurt sees it all on Blaine's face and laughs. They're bound by the same story, the same thoughts, the same want. "So I give you one of your fantasies," Kurt says, thumbing over the tip of his cock for emphasis, "and you give me one of mine?"

"Fair is fair."

Kurt glances at his pajama top, most of it bunched up under his ass now, and says, "Do you want this off, too?"

"Leave it," Blaine says, his eyes on Kurt's cock.

"Okay," Kurt whispers. He seems to sink into Blaine's stare; it's everything Blaine ever wanted, to worship this man.

Kurt picks up the pace and settles into it, as if enveloped in the memory of dorm room fantasies and the promise of what's to come. He's full-on panting now, in between gasps and _hmm_ and _ahhh_ and _Blaine, oh Blaine,_ and it's all Blaine can do to keep his hands to himself. It's the _Blaine, oh Blaine,_ over and over again that really rattles him. If he could have heard those words slip out of Kurt's pink lips just once at Dalton, he never would have let him go.

"You like watching me... _oh, shit..._ come apart," Kurt says.

"Were you thinking of me? At Dalton, when you put your hand down your pants, when you fingered yourself in the shower?"

"Always. Every time," Kurt replies, and Blaine can tell he's close—so close it will only take a few words, or his hot breath in Kurt's ear, to tip him right over the edge.

"And since?" Blaine asks.

"Yes."

"You still think of me when you get off?" Blaine asks, his hands in tight fists as he fights the urge to touch, grab, stroke, kiss, feel.

"You know I do. That night. _Fuck._ Our night, last week," Kurt pants, his hand moving furiously now. "I told you. It was you. You're my default, Blaine. I have to make myself... _oh, oh shit... Blaine, oh Blaine—"_

"You have to make yourself what?"

"I have to... close. _Close, Blaine._ I have to—"

Kurt lifts his ass up off the bed, and that's when Blaine sees it: his hole, glistening, dark pink, open. _Ready._

"Kurt, did you... did you _prep_ for me?"

"I thought, since it's our anniversary—"

"Kurt—"

"You seemed to like it. You seemed... _Blaine, I can't..._ you were so hot for it, the thought of it, that you could just slide right into me—"

Blaine can't take one more second of this. "Come. Come now so I can fuck you. _Come."_

As if on command, Kurt tenses up, mouth slack, and comes all over his stomach. His thighs shake, his brow is damp with sweat. Blaine doesn't wait for him to come down. He quickly climbs up the bed, turns Kurt on his side and lies down behind him, arm wrapped over Kurt's chest. They stay still like that, listening to each other breathe, until Blaine trails his hand up Kurt's chest, his neck, his chin, and slips his thumb into Kurt's pliant mouth.

He turns Kurt's head toward him, fingers gripping his chin, and kisses him for the first time in fifteen hours. It's possessive, and a little sloppy, but Kurt doesn't seem to mind. "You taste like tequila," Kurt murmurs into Blaine's mouth.

The angle is awkward and when Kurt moves to turn around, Blaine stops him, pulls back from the kiss and whispers into his ear, "Let me fuck you, baby. Just like this."

Kurt just nods; he's too spent to answer. He lets Blaine maneuver him, lets him lift up his right leg and move it, positioning him just so. Blaine traces two fingers over Kurt's hole and then, without warning, he's inside, testing, teasing, making sure.

He pulls his pants down a bit, takes his cock out, so hard, so ready. He rubs its tip along Kurt's ass, his lower back, between his thighs. Kurt is moaning now, desperate even in his sated state. Blaine grabs Kurt's right cheek, then reaches his hand down and pulls it apart just enough to let his cock slide in between.

This time there is no talking.

Blaine molds himself to Kurt's backside and fucks him fast. He lets the denim rub up against Kurt's calves, makes sure Kurt can feel the metal zipper on the back of his thighs. Kurt, usually so full of praise and profanity, is reduced to whimpers as he reaches behind to grab Blaine's ass, urging him to fuck harder, or deeper, or stay still for a moment when it's all too good, too perfect, too agonizingly hot to move.

He pushes back to get Blaine even deeper, grabbing his hand and pulling it back over his chest. He intertwines their fingers and grips tightly, squeezing every time Blaine grunts into his ear, his hair, his shoulder. It's dirty, so dirty, the sounds of sex and the sight of Kurt's pale, naked skin against Blaine's nearly clothed body.

Kurt yanks their joined hands down to his cock, now hard again, and Blaine just hangs on as Kurt jerks himself with purpose. They're a mess—a sweaty, sticky, panting, grunting, beautiful mess. Blaine feels the heat build and buries his cock in Kurt's ass, and when he feels Kurt start to come, Blaine lets go and pounds into him until he comes, too, screaming into the back of Kurt's neck.

In a million years, he never would have imagined Kurt so free, so willing, so deliciously naughty. He would have taken him however he came, of course—restrained, nervous, vanilla, shy. But Kurt is none of those things. He's Blaine's very best match, the most perfect man in the whole wide world.

They stay in the same position for minutes, more, who knows how long, until Kurt turns to face Blaine, wincing a bit as he shuffles in and presses as close to Blaine as possible.

Blaine wraps both arms around him, rests his hands gently on Kurt's ass, and says, "You okay?"

Kurt snuggles in deeper and nods into Blaine's chest, and then he's shaking, and Blaine thinks he's crying, in pain, or overcome with something—sadness? Worry? Overwhelm? But then Kurt lifts his head and Blaine can hear it before he finally sees Kurt's face. Kurt is laughing, so hard his whole body is about to fold in half.

Blaine smiles, laughs a bit with him, but it's Kurt's moment; he'll explain when he comes down. After a while Kurt is calmer, still giggling a bit, but able to look Blaine in the eyes when he cups Blaine's chin and says, "Just so we're clear, you're the best I've ever had."

Blaine beams. "Thank you. I'm sure I don't have to tell you it's mutual."

Kurt giggles and says, "I mean— _Blaine._ We are having seriously amazing sex. I have never—and I do mean never—felt the urge to scream, 'Thank you, Jesus!' For obvious reasons. But I do now. I need someone or something to thank, because this is more than just good sex; this is life-altering sex. This is what people mean when they say ‘earth-shattering' sex."

Blaine is so proud he feels as if he could levitate right off the bed, his grin as wide as it's ever been.

"I used to tell myself that if I ever had sex with you, it would be a disappointment, because I'd built it up for so long," Kurt continues. "Like that time I met Zac Efron at this event at The Center."

"Was it post coming out, or—?"

"Yes, but before the hair."

"Ew. Okay. _Not_ pretty."

"Right. Anticlimactic, to say the least. So many fantasies demolished in one handshake."

"Tragic."

"Quite," Kurt says, shifting up onto one elbow. "Sometimes I had to convince myself that there was no way we could be as hot as I imagined it, that it would be embarrassingly awkward, mediocre. Or just bad. But, fuck, Blaine. It's... I mean, you have to admit, it's almost unbelievably good between us. Like, no one should have it this good. Should they? It's almost unfair how good the sex is."

Blaine grins, kisses the corner of Kurt's mouth and says, "No it isn't. It's what it feels like when you love someone completely, without question."

Kurt looks worried. "And... you've never felt this before?"

"What? No. Of course not."

"You talk as though you speak from experience," Kurt explains, relaxing a bit.

"No. I just knew, that's all. I knew it would feel this way with you," Blaine explains, running his fingers along Kurt's arm. "I knew sex with you would be amazing, but I didn't know you'd be so fucking dirty, Kurt. _God."_

Kurt smirks. "You bring it out in me."

"I do? You weren't... you haven't—?"

"What? Love, let's not pretend we haven't both had plenty of great sex—"

"Of course not, I just wondered what you're into, what you've done before, and might want to do again," Blaine explains.

"We can get to that, right? I mean, just... just know it may have been wild, but it's never felt like this."

Kurt's kiss is sweet, and slow, and full of reassurance and _shhh, let's not do this, I love you, it was always you, yes you, no more, shhh._ And then he's singing low, just barely above a whisper, pressing the words into Blaine's lips. [_"I want you, I want you so bad."_](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=34FFAD6JnDA)

Blaine wraps one hand around the back of Kurt's neck and kisses him fiercely, tongue fucking into Kurt's mouth and sliding on his teeth. He kisses his need, his love, his _gratitude_ into him; it is his own song. When Kurt can breathe he sings again, one hand caressing Blaine's cheek. _"I want you, I want you so bad, it's driving me mad, it's driving me mad."_

They kiss again, and kiss some more, and only stop when they need air.

"The Beatles?"

"You know I grew up on their music. I told you about how they used to dance around the living room before dinner."

Blaine takes Kurt's hand, slots their fingers together. "Tell me again."

Eyes shining, Kurt says, "My parents, they listened to them every day. Sometimes they let me choose the song. I danced with them, but mostly I liked to sit on the couch and watch them, how they bounced round, happy, singing every word. 

"After she died," Kurt continues, "Dad played Mom's old albums in his room. It meant something, to all of us."

"Sing more. Sing another."

"I will. Someday. My ‘Blackbird' will bring you to your knees."

"I don't doubt it. You just open your mouth and I go under."

They're quiet again, thinking, happy. After a while, Blaine cleans them up, takes off his clothes, pulls the duvet back up to the top of the bed and climbs in next to Kurt.

"I can't believe you prepped yourself for me again," Blaine says, eyes shining.

"Well, the first time was purely coincidental."

"And convenient."

"That, too. I thought it was appropriate, since today is our anniversary," Kurt says. He's drawing circles, or hearts, or maybe snowflakes on Blaine's chest. He plays with Blaine's nipples, the patch of dark hair just below his belly button, his hands.

"It's not our anniversary, by the way," Blaine says into Kurt's hair.

"It is so. I'm pretty sure it was a week ago today that you had me up against a wall."

"Yeah, well. I don't want to celebrate that."

"Why not?"

"Because I hadn't told I love you yet," Blaine explains, his voice soft and steady.

Kurt lifts his head says, "Saturday, then?"

"Saturday."

"What should we do to celebrate?"

"Maybe go back to Il Piatto and try to make it through an actual dinner?"

"Yes. I'll make the reservations tomorrow," Kurt says, snuggling in closer. "Oh, wait! How was Shep? Did you say yes? Are you Scout's hot new recording artist? Tell me!"

"I gave him a strong maybe. I need to discuss it with a few people, and with you. I'll tell you everything in the morning—it means I'll be busy, _really_ busy, and we're just getting started—"

"Blaine, you can't—"

"Shh. We'll talk about it in the morning."

Kurt hesitates but quiets, planting a soft kiss on Blaine's chest. He mumbles, "Okay, rock star," and falls asleep within seconds.

Blaine drifts—to Saturday, to anniversaries yet to come, to someday. He briefly wonders if it's right to plan anniversaries when there is still so much unfinished, when there are still so many ties to break and amends to be made. It all feels so tenuous, fragile; he wants solid ground under his feet and a firm commitment from his love as to when, and where, and how. But he's too content, too stupidly happy to dwell on this for long. As his eyes flutter shut, his last thought is the same as it's been nearly every night since he was seventeen: _someday._

\---

 

On Thursday Blaine logs sixteen hours in the studio while Kurt, Antonio and Deidre drive up the Old Turquoise Trail to Madrid to pick up three small paintings he commissioned on his last visit. Kurt texts him photos of old mine shaft entrances straight out of a John Wayne film: Deidre perched on a motorcycle, clutching an impressive tattooed bicep; a wooden marquee next to a honky-tonk bar, on which a flyer promotes "Drag Bingo! Saturday Night!;" Antonio sitting on a too-small stool at a retro soda fountain; rows of mailboxes, painted fuchsia and dipped in glitter; a close-up of Kurt's face, pointed toward the sun.

He talks to Mitch and Adele after the dinner break. They are both overjoyed that he's finally decided to take Shep up on his offer, and suddenly there is a plan, and next steps, a path to something he's dreamed about since college. 

By the time he makes it back to Kurt's room it's after midnight. Kurt is asleep, the room dark save for the soft light from the desk lamp. Blaine empties his pockets and notices Kurt's notepad, open facedown on the desk. He knows he shouldn't look, but picks up the book before he can stop himself. Kurt's been staring at the thing off and on for a couple of days—he just wants to take a quick peek.

The page is blank, except for the words "FRESH START" written across the top. Confused, Blaine flips through the remaining blank pages and notices a few pages have been torn out. His eyes immediately zero in on the trashcan under the desk, and now he's officially snooping. He's not even sure why he feels the need to do it—he could just ask Kurt—but something is pulling him forward.

He finds two crumpled balls and unfolds each one carefully so as not to wake Kurt. Right away he can tell that these are discarded drafts of his Zozobra paper. Blaine had dropped his final version in the box earlier that morning. Just three sentences encapsulated all of his regrets and his greatest fear:

_Every chance I never took._  
Every promise or declaration I made to anyone but Kurt.  
That all of this is but a dream. 

He felt better after placing the twice-folded paper in the box, as if he were already letting the regrets and fears go. But he'd shown his paper to Kurt before he left that morning. He'd let him read it, and accepted his kiss of reassurance. Surely Kurt would have shown him his paper as well?

His heart stops when he realizes Kurt has written only one sentence on each page:

_Loving Paul.  
Hurting Paul._

Paul. The papers were both rough drafts of a paper that went into the same box in which Blaine dropped his own regrets. What was on the paper that finally made it into the box? And why, after days of trying, had he found it so difficult to make one list that would get him closer to a fresh start?

For the first time in days, Blaine falls asleep with a troubled mind and a heavy heart.

\---

They're not expected at Fort Marcy Field until three p.m., so the next morning after a shower and coffee and a late breakfast of eggs and red chile at Tia Sofias, they drive to Whole Foods to pick up picnic items to share with the group, then to Target for a blanket and a cooler. With an hour or so to kill, they decide to do the tourist thing for a bit, and drive back to the Plaza.

The last thing they expect to find at the Georgia O'Keefe Museum is a pack of kids running in circles in the lobby, but they are not deterred. Kurt wants to see O'Keefe's desert, her ravens, her sky.

Blaine pays their admittance fee as a tall, thin woman, probably the mother says to her harried husband, "It's just art. There's nothing here for kids."

Kurt rolls his eyes and digs his fingers into Blaine's arm. 

"Don't bite your tongue so hard it falls off," Blaine teases.

They wander the minimalist rooms, sometimes lingering together to look at a particularly stunning flower, hands and shoulders brushing; sometimes apart, reading plaques and taking their time. Kurt has been sweet and flirty all day, but also distant and nervous. It's unsettling; it feels as though they aren't just killing time, but waiting for something, something terrible. 

Blaine knows it's probably apprehension about telling Paul. Kurt's nerves are getting the best of him.

"Look, New York!" Kurt says, his expression wistful and still a bit closed off. "I thought she only painted flowers and desert things."

"I guess not."

Blaine lets his arm brush against Kurt's back, leans further into his space, breathes him in. They are alone in this wing, the obnoxious family long gone, and Blaine contemplates kissing the back of Kurt's neck, wrapping his arms around his waist and pressing his forehead to his back, pushing in, and in, closer, still closer until his forehead rests in that sweet, sweet spot between Kurt's shoulder blades.

Instead he slips his hand into Kurt's and says, "Do you miss it?"

"Every day."

"And could you imagine yourself living anywhere else?" Blaine asks, trying to keep the worry out of his voice.

"I don't know. I never tried, not seriously."

Kurt pulls him into the last room, effectively closing the subject. They talk of art, and rumors about O'Keefe's sexuality, and their favorite galleries. As they drive back to the Eldorado they trade stories about artists they've known, pieces they've loved. As they walk toward Fort Marcy Field, cooler and blanket in tow, they talk of the places they'd still like to visit while in Santa Fe—Taos, a return visit to Ten Thousand Waves, dinner at the restaurant at the Inn of the Anasazi. It's not strained, not at all, but there's a nagging feeling sitting squarely on the back of Blaine's neck—a worry, fear.

As they pay their entrance fee and walk onto the field, Blaine stares up at giant "Old Man Gloom," his black eyes and red lips, and remembers the last words on his paper: _That all of this is but a dream._ He'll watch it burn up tonight, and the worry and fear will be gone, along with his regrets. They'll get their fresh start, surrounded by their new friends and twenty thousand Santa Feans. And in a few weeks, once everything has settled down, they'll come back to each other free, and ready; they'll begin.

"Look, Blaine, he's wearing a bow tie," Kurt says, poking him in the side.

"Are you finding this at all bizarre?" Blaine asks.

"I think it's fabulous."

Despite the early hour, a large crowd of people mills about, looking for a place to squat, finding their groups. 

"Antonio said meet them on second base. What on earth did he mean by that?" Kurt asks.

Blaine glances around and notices a baseball diamond close to the main stage. A quick scan of the crowd and he spots them: Antonio, Sarah and the Alex Marin kids, some in chairs, some sprawled out on blankets. When they arrive, Antonio gives both of them a big hug, nearly lifting Blaine off the ground. He looks ecstatic, like today is Christmas, at Disneyland.

"I'm _so_ excited you came. You are going to have the best day. The _best day,"_ Antonio says, rubbing his hands together. "Can I get you anything? A beer? Sarah made sangria—"

"Don't mind him," Sarah says with a smile, kissing Blaine on his cheek. "This is his favorite day of the year."

"Oh, I don't mind. I'm excited, too," Blaine says, setting down the cooler.

"He's an enthusiast," Kurt says with a wink. "It's a way of life."

Blaine helps Kurt spread out their blanket and organize their snacks. He catches up with the kids, all of them disappointed he didn't bring his guitar. He watches the crowd swel, and is relieved when Adele and crew show up in time to commandeer a space right next to them. She's dressed down, a giant floppy hat on her head to block out the sun and hide from fans. He notices Deidre arrive with Mitch, and asks, "What's up with that?"

Kurt shrugs and says, "No idea."

After they're all settled, eyes glued to the darling Mini Mariachis—children dressed in full costume, performing their little hearts out—Blaine leans in toward Antonio and says, "Help me keep an eye on her, okay? This is a big crowd, and I don't want anyone to get to her."

"No problem."

After a while, Sarah pulls a lightweight easel from her giant bag of tricks, unfolds it, and places an easel pad, half-used, on the ledge. The kids gather close, familiar with the tradition, and Sarah assigns teams. Soon they're all crowded around the easel playing a rowdy game of Pictionary (without the board). Kurt sits in Blaine's lap, learning forward when it's his turn to guess, shouting answers and slapping his thighs when he gets it right.

Blaine wraps his arms securely around Kurt's waist, pulls him back, and whispers into his ear. "I adore you. And this. I love everything about this day." Kurt twists a bit to give him a kiss and then snuggles back in to watch Adele draw for her team. She seems to be drawing the same thing over and over again—a train, with two straight lines next to it.

Over the ridiculous guesses from her team, Deidre finally shouts, "Goddamn it, Adele, can't you draw something different?"

Adele glares at her, and finally starts to draw something that looks like a map, but Blaine's not sure; this is clearly not her game. Sarah calls time, and Adele throws her hands in the air. 

"Orient Express!"

"What the hell are the two lines?" Deidre asks.

"Chopsticks."

They're all laughing now, even Deidre, Kurt doubled over in his lap. 

"Oh fuck off," Adele says, reaching for her cup of sangria. "Talk to me when you have a dozen Grammys." 

There is a collective, "Ohhh!" and then Deidre is clinking glasses with Adele, and Sarah is teasing both of them, and all is well.

They pass around salads in Chinese takeout containers, a bowl of fried chicken, garlic cheese rolls, freshly baked chocolate cake. It's a hodgepodge, but Blaine loves every second of it: the band, Adele, his new friends, and Kurt, always Kurt. It's as if they've built a little community in just a few short days and he never wants it to end.

By the time the sun sets, they're all mildly drunk and anxious for the main event to start. Their blankets an island in a sea of people, they stand to see over the crowd, laughing at the fire dancers and shirtless drummers. It's all very pagan, despite the priests standing off to one side, blessing the event. Blaine can feel the crowd pulsating in his own body; the anticipation is palpable.

Suddenly, Zozobra starts to moan, and growl, and flail his arms. The lights on the field go out and the crowd chants, "Burn him! Burn him! Burn him!" He notices Antonio wedge in close to Adele, standing over her protectively, as they all join in the chanting. Kurt is laughing and shouting along with everyone else, his neck and wrists adorned with glow sticks, a gift from the kids. And once again, it feels as if they are suspended in time, neither here nor there. He wraps his arm around Kurt's waist and tugs him close.

As the flames lick up the bottom of Zozobra's dress (it couldn't be called anything but), the crowd goes wild, screaming louder than he's heard at any arena. As the fire builds and crawls up the cloth body, stuffed with the worst of it, with everything that holds people back and haunts them and keeps them up at night; with everything wrong, and stupid, and worrisome, and _bad;_ Blaine feels a calm wash over him. 

As Zozobra wails and the fire consumes him, the crowd caught up in the crazy, dark joy of watching their troubles burn, the worry leaves him. The weight of regret disappears and he is suddenly both lighter and more grounded at the same time. He looks at Kurt, the fire casting a glow on his jubilant face. _Does he feel it too?_

After the fireworks, after they pack up their empty containers, and coolers, and chairs, and blankets, after they all walk the four blocks to Antonio and Sarah's lovely restored adobe, their crew expands to include other friends of their hosts, filtering in from the festivities. Blaine helps Sarah set out several kinds of homemade salsa and guacamole as everyone else lends a hand with chairs, with playlists, with drinks and a table of sweet treats.

The party is jumping, yet easy, as good people laugh and get a bit too drunk. There is dancing, Antonio's playlist a love letter to Sarah. It's her music—soul and funk and some Motown, and nearly everyone takes a turn dancing, even Adele. Blaine flows in and out of Kurt's orbit, standing close to him for long stretches, letting him mingle and laugh and shine in others. Most of the guests don't know their story, their past, their tangled web and plans unmade. They just see them as Kurt and Blaine, two men in love, and treat them as such. It's _heaven._

But later, he notices Kurt off to the side, staring into his drink. He remembers the crumpled papers, Kurt's worst, the thing he wanted to see go up in flames. What had he written on the paper he dropped in the box? Maybe the magic of the night is lost on him. Maybe he's too burdened with the reality of breaking Paul's heart to let Zozobra do his job.

With the first few bars of ["I've Been Loving You Too Long,"](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GGlKJDEI1Nk) Blaine pulls Kurt onto the dance floor and into his arms. Here, surrounded by Sarah and Antonio's friends, Blaine feels they are a part of something bigger than themselves, something outside of the two of them and their age-old dance. He holds Kurt a little tighter, lets Otis move them and tries not to think about all that's left to unravel and break, the blank pages, all the words unsaid. _I've been loving you too long, long, and I don't want to stop now._

Blaine's love is a slow burn, hot, crackling under his skin like the small fire in the kiva not ten feet away. Are they all on fire tonight, all of these couples in and out of something great, dancing slowly, and slower still, letting the music glue them together when words fail? _I'm down on my knees. Please don't make me stop now._ Will all their regrets go up in smoke now, angry like Zozobra, wailing and fighting to hang on? _I love you. I love you. I love you._ Will they truly be able to wipe the slate clean and start over, or was it just a paper wish, a secret confession that cannot be absolved? _And I can't stop now. Don't make me stop now._

They dance like this for two songs, and a third, a haunting, sexy version of "A Case of You," covered by Prince. Kurt laughs and says, "I think this is the only way Sarah can stand Joni Mitchell."

"Antonio likes Joni?"

"So much. It's disturbing," Kurt replies, cocking his head to one side. "Something wrong?"

"No. I'm good. I was going to ask you the same, actually."

Kurt looks scared for a moment, starts to say something and then grabs Blaine in a tight hug. "Just hold me close. Just dance with me and hold me as close as you can."

Most of their friends are dancing now, Antonio with Sarah, Erick with Wyatt, even Deidre with Mitch. Kurt presses his fist against the back of Blaine's shirt, lets Blaine lead their movements, follows his hips. It's not sexual, not yet. It's an exhale, a promise; the forging of two hearts.

Kurt sings—oh God, how he loves it when Kurt sings. _"Oh, but you are in my blood, you're my holy wine."_

"This is a good song for you. You should add it to your repertoire," Blaine whispers.

"I don't have a repertoire anymore."

"You could."

Kurt pulls back, slips his hand into Blaine's and says, "Let's go back."

Blaine nods, and they make the rounds, thanking their hosts and saying their goodbyes to the rest. They leave the blanket and the cooler, buried deep in the stack of Zozobra supplies, and make their way back to the Eldorado. They're quiet, the song still on their minds as they approach the Plaza. Picking up San Francisco Street again, Blaine has the beginning of a new song: a song about this street, this city, this gift to his heart, this chance.

They're still holding hands as they enter the lobby, happily buzzed, Kurt mumbling something about which room they should stay in tonight, when a voice stops them cold.

"Kurt! I've been waiting—you look—God, I missed you. You look amazing. Where have you been? I've been texting you for hours."


	11. Chapter 11

"Paul."

As Kurt's hand slips from his grasp—fast, like it's on fire—Blaine can actually feel joy leave his body. It shoots out from the marrow of his bones and through his skin, every inch of it, disappearing into air, leaving him with the terrifyingly familiar ache that he'd thought gone forever.

_Paul._

Paul isn't some abstract concept, a man he knew for an evening, a man he envied. He isn't Kurt's biggest regret, someone to whom Blaine will apologize sincerely and profusely and eventually forget as he and Kurt walk off into their preordained life. Paul is a man with a platinum band on his ring finger and Kurt's promise in his heart. He's real and standing right in front of them, _jubilant._

Suddenly Blaine feels as if he's watching his love slip away from him in slow motion, as if he's drowning, as if he's a spectator in his own life. Every gesture is exaggerated and every moment takes too long: Paul's face breaking out in a radiant smile; his arms opening wide and wrapping around Kurt. It's the end of the movie, the last scene, as Paul squeezes Kurt hard and lifts him up off the ground like two lovers reunited. Because _they are._ Kurt and Paul are lovers.

Without Blaine it's just the two of them, undeniably a couple, certainly friends. Between them are midnight confessions and shared plans and sweet, silly moments stacked up like bricks, fortifying. He stares as they hug and Paul chatters and Kurt whispers back, and Blaine realizes that the wall between him and his happy ending is much stronger than he had anticipated. _They are; they are lovers._

Paul is here. _Paul._ Smiling, handsome, travel-rumpled Paul, who seems too focused on hugging his fiancé to notice that Kurt was practically glued to Blaine when they walked in the door. It's the proverbial slap that wakes him up to reality, to old doubts and new fears.

"We did it! Wilder caved and then Peterson had no choice but to agree and now it's done. It's done!"

Kurt pulls back from the hug, grips Paul's forearms and says, "As in, _done,_ done? As in they won't go back on their word?" Paul nods, and Kurt sways a bit. "We're—that's it? It finally happened?"

Paul's face is lit up like Christmas. Kurt's return smile hits Blaine like a bucket of cold water. That smile, shining at him over coffee; on the dance floor; under a blue, sun-bleached sheet drying on Carole's backyard clothesline, his face turned away from too-fat dragons and cotton candy wisps floating across the sky. 

It hurts too much to see _that_ smile directed at someone else. 

Paul takes Kurt into his arms and lifts him up off of the floor again. Kurt squeezes him back, laughing. The sight of his love in the arms of another is too, too much, and Blaine has to fight the urge to punch Paul in the face. In all the years he pined for Kurt, he'd never wanted do harm to one of his boyfriends, not even when he was spitting mad at that cheater Caleb. Annihilate them through song, yes. Humiliate them with his vast knowledge of the many layers of Kurt Hummel, absolutely. But tackle them to the ground and beat the living shit out of them? Never. The desire to rip Kurt from Paul's grasp and do just that is more than a little disconcerting. 

"I had to see you. I had to come straight to you," Paul says, his body buzzing. 

"But how could you leave? You must have so much to do—"

"Clark is bringing the vote to the floor as soon as we're back in session, but that's not until after Labor Day. Andy told me to take the weekend."

_Weekend? He's here for the weekend?_

Kurt goes white, but he doesn't say, "No, no. You can't possibly stay. I'm in love with Blaine, and we promised each other all of the days. All of them."

What he does say is, "You remember Blaine."

"Of course! Kurt mentioned you two ran into each other," Paul says, extending his hand. The sight of Paul's earnest face is enough to make Blaine want to vomit all over the Navajo rug beneath them, but he shakes his hand anyway.

"Small world, and all that," Blaine says, failing at everything. Paul's grip is strong, his skin warm. 

"Come celebrate with us!" Paul exclaims. He is all trust and happiness; Blaine can feel the bile creep up his esophagus. 

"Yes! That's exactly what we should do," Kurt replies. "Together. All three of us. They're still serving at the Agave."

Blaine thinks Kurt may have temporarily lost his mind.

"I don't—"

_"Marriage,_ Blaine. It means we're as good as everyone else, in every state."

Kurt looks at him with pleading eyes, as if to say, "Don't leave me." But the urgency and precariousness of their situation is lost on him now. All he can see is Kurt in a tux; Kurt leaning into him as music plays and their nearest and dearest dance; Kurt whispering into his ear, _This is how it always was,_ as he slips his hand into Blaine's pocket and pulls out the key to their room, his heart, their future.

"Please join us, Blaine. I'd love to catch up with you, and share a toast to our new civil rights." 

Blaine gapes. _A toast to our new civil rights? Is he for real?_

"Of course. I'd love to. Thank you."

He knows that if this were a normal situation, if he weren't in love with Kurt, if he weren't fucking Paul's fiancé, he'd politely decline and let the lovers escape to their room for the private celebration Paul no doubt had in mind. But this situation is anything _but_ normal. This situation is pure hell and it doesn't come with a rulebook. 

The Agave is buzzing with post-Fiesta revelry. Kurt leads them through the maze of tourists and the occasional group of suits caught up in the citywide celebration, toward the back of the lounge. He zeroes in on a group of middle-aged women standing up to leave and claims their table. There is small talk as the women gather their things, talk of mariachis, and rebirth, and crowds and fireworks. Paul is rapt, asking questions about Zozobra while Blaine merely nods and smiles in what he hopes are all of the right places.

"—And I really felt it, you know? The release? What did you burn?"

It takes him a moment to realize that the short, slightly plump woman is talking to him. She's glassy-eyed and bouncy and a bit too loud.

"Sorry, what?"

"What did you burn? You did write down your fears and regrets, didn't you?" 

"Yes, I—"

"Wasn't it amazing? Watching it go up in smoke? Just poof! All of that ugly stuff gone for good—"

Before Blaine can spit out an answer the woman is pulled away by her friends, en route to another bar. Paul settles in on the butter-soft oversized settee. He pats the cushion, urging Kurt to sit down next to him. Blaine sits in a chair opposite them, glaring at Paul as he tugs on Kurt's waist to pull him closer.

A busser swoops in and clears their table, the server right on his heels. Paul orders without consulting them. "Veuve Clicquot and three glasses, please. We're celebrating!"

Blaine tries to pay attention as Paul weaves his tale of how he pulled off the civil rights miracle of the decade, but finds it difficult to multitask—how is he supposed to keep up with this important conversation when he's busy counting the number of times Paul touches Kurt?

One, the back of Kurt's hand. Two, his forearm. Three, a shoulder squeeze. 

"And you're sure Wilder won't back out this time?" Kurt presses. 

"I may have convinced him we had enough votes to kill his farm bill and make it look like his overzealous strategy was to blame," Paul says.

Four, the back of his hand again. _Is that their thing? Is that how he calms Kurt down? Does it work faster than my thumb on his wrist?_

"But doesn't Andy support the farm bill?" Kurt asks.

"He does."

Paul smiles at Kurt, shrugs his shoulders. Kurt frowns. "And Peterson? Why did he fall in line? You said he had no choice."

Five, hand squeeze.

"He wants that farm bill just as much as Wilder, but he doesn't want to alienate his voters," Paul explains. "I may have had a hundred or so kindergartners with same sex parents draw pictures of their families and hand-deliver them to him to his office... just as Natalie Morales showed up to interview him for a _Today Show_ segment about his experience growing up in the foster care system."

"Ha! I wish I could have seen that," Kurt exclaims.

"You will."

Six, kiss on the cheek. 

"So you think a bunch of kids with sweet pictures will change his mind about ‘dirty queers?'" Blaine asks, remembering Congressman Peterson's easy dismissal of gay rights in years past.

"No, he still hates us," Paul explains. "I just handed him a very public reason for changing his mind, one that will appeal to most of his almost-moderate constituents, and made sure Ms. Morales was there to witness it. He gets his farm bill, secures some votes and gets media points for his ‘heartfelt transformation.' Everybody wins."

Kurt smirks at Paul; he knows and appreciates his ways. Blaine tries not to roll his eyes. They've only been sitting at the table for ten minutes—how is he supposed to get through the rest of the night without revealing their secret to Paul or knocking that satisfied smile right off his face? 

"You _are_ brilliant," Kurt says fondly, as if he's reminding himself that it's true. Blaine shifts in his seat.

"It was you. Your belief in me, and in us, it carried me through and inspired me," Paul says, his hand on Kurt's cheek. 

_Eight._

Blaine tries not to vomit on the table. Paul's smooth is too smooth, as if it comes from a can. _Maybe I could just accidentally kick him under the table—repeatedly._

Kurt looks down at his hands, folds the corners of his cocktail napkin down, one at a time. If Blaine ever wanted a direct line to Kurt's brain, it's now. He is at his mercy and he has no idea what Kurt could be thinking. 

Just then, Kurt looks up at Paul. Behind his eyes there is sadness, but Paul's smile remains. Kurt tries to smile back, says, "I can't believe you're here." 

"Good surprise?" Paul asks.

"Of course."

Paul relaxes his shoulders. "Good."

Kurt turns his attention to his champagne glass, spinning it to catch the flickering candlelight. Blaine knows Kurt likes the patterns the glass makes on the napkin, and because he knows this, he smiles. 

From across the table, Paul offers Blaine a toothy grin. "So Blaine—"

"Hmm?"

"Wedding bells for you any time soon?"

Kurt's gasp is nothing, almost silent, but Blaine can hear the plea of _oh God, not now, this is too hard_ underneath it. As Kurt drinks down a glass of water, Blaine takes a long sip of his champagne, thinks about how to answer. He wants to follow Kurt's lead, to make this easier on everyone, especially his love, but he can't give up all of the control. It's maddening. And it's making him feel hot and cold all at once. 

Kurt gulps too fast, and then coughs, sounding as if he's struggling for air.

"Okay?" Paul asks Kurt, rubbing his back. 

_Nine._

"Fine. Just wrong way and all that."

Paul turns his attention back to Blaine. "So? Any marriage plans for you and your—I'm sorry, I don't recall your boyfriend's name." 

Paul takes Kurt's hand and places it in his own lap, under the table. 

_Ten._

Shifting his gaze to Kurt, Blaine says, "I haven't proposed yet."

Kurt's eyes go wide, but Paul doesn't notice.

"But you want to," Paul says.

"I do," Blaine replies, eyes still fixed on Kurt. Between them is a trail of promises unspoken, like a thousand tiny boxes waiting to be opened. He holds Kurt's gaze, willing him to open one. Just one.

"And now you'll be able to get married anywhere you want in your own country," Paul says proudly. "Just don't do it this November. We've got dibs."

At this Kurt breaks the spell and turns to face Paul. "Wait—no. We said May, or possibly June—"

"Why wait? It's perfect. We'll marry in Ohio, make a statement in one of the holdout states," Paul says.

"We can't... I can't get married in November," Kurt says.

"Why not? You already have everything planned out in that book of yours."

"I just can't."

Paul seems surprised to hear Kurt's sharp tone. He leans in closer, as if he wants to hug him, soothe him, love him up. But before he can, Kurt slides away and gets up from the table. "I need the restroom. I'll be... I'll be back."

Kurt checks his pockets, offers both men a small smile and then, as he walks by, a barely-there brush against Blaine's back. It's nothing, but enough to bring a blush to Blaine's cheeks. A blush is all it would take for Paul to pay attention, to assess Blaine. And he can't have that, not until he knows how Kurt wants to handle this. 

Paul may be watching Kurt, or watching him watch Kurt, so he won't look. He won't look at him as he walks away, as he has watched his every move since that first Tuesday, more than a week ago; since the last chance, the one that fate gave them because they couldn't get there on their own; since before then, and every day; since the beginning; since the day he turned to answer the question of a beautiful lost boy, when he was deaf to his own heart but looking, always looking; since what feels like forever; since... November. He won't look. He _won't._

Except he does look, for just a moment, mere seconds but long enough to see Kurt wind his way through the tables as he did that night at Il Piatto. And then he's still looking, eyes on Kurt's back, his shoulders, his graceful stride. 

When he turns back to Paul he is composed, all Anderson, his forced smile masking the raging volcano in his gut. Paul is focused on his phone, texting a reply to someone.

Paul turns his phone over on the table. "Sorry. Bad habit."

Blaine shrugs. "Work is work. Yours is more important than most."

"It's not, not really," Paul says. He leans back, rests his arm on the back of the settee. "We all need teachers, and scientists, and skilled labor, and music, and design—I could go on, of course. The list of admirable and necessary professions is long. I'm just a guy with a dream who won't give up."

The worst thing about Paul is, he's almost impossible not to like. Everyone likes him. Loves him. Even Kurt. _Kurt._

Paul is passionate as he speaks about the inherent value of each and every person on the planet, wide-eyed and talking with his hands. Blaine listens, and nods, and smiles; his mother's best protégé. 

"Liam! _That's_ his name," Paul says, interrupting his own monologue. "Your boyfriend. Kurt mentioned him."

"We broke up."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. But I thought Kurt said—"

"We broke up."

Blaine may be okay with using everything he learned at his mother's knee to hide the tension and turmoil inside of him, to keep him from claiming Kurt in some ridiculous display, but he'll be damned if he's going to lie.

"You said you planned to propose. Someone new then?" Paul asks.

Blaine looks directly into Paul's eyes and says, "Someone perfect."

"Whirlwind romance?"

Blaine chuckles. "Depends who you ask."

"Hmm, you're holding on to that story pretty tightly," Paul teases. "Maybe we'll get it out of you with the next round."

Paul pulls the bottle from its icy bath and tops off all three glasses. Blaine sneaks a glance toward the direction of the restrooms. No sign of Kurt.

"So, Blaine, what do you know for sure?"

_Really? The Oprah line?_ Blaine tries not to laugh. "I know the Buckeyes can't defend against a long pass because their wideouts aren't fast enough."

"Buckeyes, huh? I'm not a football fan, though Burt has taught me enough that I enjoy it somewhat. You know Burt and Carole, right?"

"Very well, yes."

Paul's phone vibrates on the table. He flips it over, looks at the screen and says, "Shit. I have to respond to this email. Do you mind?"

"Go right ahead."

With Paul engrossed in composing his email, Blaine pulls out his own phone, intent on texting Kurt to make sure he's okay. When he unlocks his phone he sees that Kurt has already texted him from the bathroom.

**Kurt:  
I'm sorry. I'm in shock. Don't be mad.**

**Kurt:  
Please look at your phone.**

**Kurt:  
I'm not in the bathroom. I snuck off to the bar. I'm drinking tequila. The bartender is teaching me things.**

Blaine cranes his neck, looks around the room, but the bar is out of his sight line. He immediately types a reply.

**Blaine:  
This is crazy.**

**Kurt:  
I know. I know. I panicked.**

**Blaine:  
He's quoting Oprah. You need to come back.**

**Kurt:  
?**

**Blaine:  
What do I know for sure? I know for sure that this is hell.**

**Kurt:  
That's just his standard opener. He thinks he made it up.**

**Blaine:  
Seriously? Doesn't she have that trademarked?**

**Kurt:  
Blaine! Focus!**

**Blaine:  
Yes. Shock. Got it. Are you ever coming back?**

**Kurt:  
Will you help me tell him?**

**Blaine:  
Of course. **

**Kurt:  
Right now?**

**Blaine:  
Yes.**

**Kurt:  
Oh god. He'll hate me.**

**Blaine:  
He won't.**

**Kurt:  
You don't know him.**

**Blaine:  
I know he loves you.**

**Blaine:  
And I love you.**

**Blaine:  
And I could never hate you.**

**Kurt:  
Deep breath.**

**Blaine:  
Baby. Come on.**

**Kurt:  
Follow my lead. I may not be able to do this.**

**Blaine:  
You can. You will. **

**Kurt:  
I'm walking back now.**

**Blaine:  
I don't want him to think we were texting while you were gone, so I'll keep texting until you come out. I love you. **

**Blaine:  
I love you. I love you. I love you.**

**Blaine:  
Remember that night, after the Spring Break Eve Party when we snuck out of the dorms with Thad's stash and walked out to that tree in the back field? **

**Blaine:  
You said you wanted the kind of love that could break your heart. You said you wanted to be at someone's mercy. And I didn't say anything. I held my breath because you were daring me to love you. To be that person. Or I thought you were.**

Blaine can feel him return, his love, but he keeps texting; he does not look up.

"I see you both are enjoying each other's company," Kurt teases.

Paul holds up two fingers, his attention focused on his phone. Kurt sits down next to him, sips his champagne. 

"Almost done," Blaine says.

**Blaine:  
The way you looked at me. You were daring me, Kurt. I wasn't sure then. I was never sure enough to try. So I let the sun come up and that was that.**

**Blaine:  
I am that person. **

**Blaine:  
Don't forget that, baby.**

Blaine sends the last text, slips his phone into his pocket. He looks at Kurt. "Sorry about that."

Kurt smiles nervously, glances over at Paul. He waits; he does not fill up the space between them with small talk, or pretend. Blaine steels himself for what's coming. He studies Paul, his entire being wrapped up in somewhere else, some plan, and wonders if he'll go down lightly. Will he let Kurt go without a fight? Will he unravel before them, his shiny brass armor falling to the hard Mexican ceramic tile floor? Or will he recognize the truth, that there will be no compromise, no negotiation? 

There will be no deal.

When Paul finally looks up from his phone he doesn't pocket it or turn it off. Instead he slides it across the table and over to Kurt, a giant grin on his perpetually photogenic face.

Kurt covers Paul's phone with his hand and says, "Paul, I need to tell you something—" 

"Read that," Paul interrupts, gesturing toward his phone.

Kurt squares his shoulders. "Something's happened, and it was... it was bound to happen eventually, I think. I _know._ I couldn't—"

"Kurt, whatever it is, I'm sure we can handle it. Please, just read the email on my phone."

Blaine stares at Kurt, at the way he grips the phone, his palm still covering the screen; at his somber face, his watery eyes; at his fear. 

"Paul—"

"Darling, please."

Kurt sneaks a quick glance at Blaine and then, shoulders slumped, lifts his hand off Paul's phone and begins to read. It's only seconds before Kurt's eyes bug out. 

"What the fuck, Paul? Tell me this is just a draft," Kurt says, his finger scrolling through whatever it is Paul wants him to read. "Tell me... _Paul._ Are you—tell me this is just a fucking draft."

Paul sits back a bit, smile faltering. "You're not happy?"

"You didn't even _talk_ to me about this," Kurt fires back, eyes still on Paul's phone.

"I thought—"

"You set a _date?"_

"It was hard enough to find a date that would work with Andy's schedule—"

Kurt slams the phone down on the table and shifts in his seat to face Paul. "I don't give a fuck about the President. Just tell me, yes or no—is this press release a draft, or have they already sent it out?"

Paul frowns, then looks over at Blaine and says, "Would you give us a few minutes?"

"He's not going anywhere," Kurt says. "Answer. The fucking. Question. Paul."

"It went out a couple of hours ago."

Kurt stares at Paul, silent, jaw set. It's only a few seconds but it feels like minutes, minutes that feel like hours, Blaine's heart threatening to beat right out of his chest until Kurt finally says, "You couldn't find another way to get a prime spot on the morning news? A hundred little valentines weren't enough?"

Paul reaches for Kurt's hand, but Kurt pulls back, folding his arms across his chest. 

"I wanted your approval, but I couldn't find you—"

"And it couldn't wait one day? Just one fucking day?" Kurt asks.

"I thought you'd be happy," Paul says. "I thought—you wanted to set a date, we've been putting it off for so long."

Kurt looks at Blaine then, eyes filling with tears he seems determined not to shed. Then he looks up at the ceiling, pressing his fingers to the corners of his eyes. He turns to Paul and says, "You should have talked to me first, even if you had to wait."

Paul leans in, takes Kurt's left hand and kisses the ring on his finger. _Eleven._

Blaine stares, notices how the firelight hit the ring just right; how it's special; how it fits Kurt's finger snugly, as it should.

_God, I'm an idiot._

_I haven't even noticed the ring. That hand has gripped my hip, pressed love into my spine, caressed my face and spread me open. I saw nothing but his elegant fingers, strong; the life lines on his palm telling me hopeful stories. It was there all the time and I saw nothing._

Blaine turns away, focuses on the din in the room, the too-loud stories about forgiveness and rebirth, the laughter. He counts the _vigas_ above him, Ponderosa pine beams stained dark. Purely ornamental, they bear no weight. He tries not to think. He won't think at all.

"We need to—let's go up to your room. We can talk this out. I'm sorry, I didn't want to—please let's—we haven't been alone together in so long. Blaine won't mind," Paul says. 

"You won't mind if I steal my guy away, right?" Paul asks.

Blaine is on a rogue rollercoaster. He is careening down a deep gorge on a runaway train. He is falling, falling, miles beneath him and only sky above, sure to crash. 

_There will be no deal._

"Actually, Paul, I do—"

"No!" Both men look at Kurt, surprised by his panicked tone. "Let's... not. We're here to celebrate," Kurt says, too sing-song to be trusted. 

_No, what? Let's not, what? Tell the truth? Go upstairs? What?_

Kurt raises his hand high in the air, fingers wiggling like he's waiting for someone to call on him. As he waves the server over to their table, Blaine is reminded of a younger Kurt, _his_ Kurt, raising his hand at Warbler practice, risking the ire of tradition-obsessed council leaders and a handful of lemmings to bring possibility, and new, and joy. He remembers calling on that same excited hand, Kurt bouncing in his seat, ready to support Blaine's ridiculous scheme to woo a boy through song, thinking he was that boy. He won't give up on that this boy now, _his_ boy. Never again.

"Kurt," Blaine presses, "you said you had something you wanted to tell Paul."

Kurt ignores him, smiles at the server approaching their table. Tall and rail-thin with blond dreadlocks pulled back from his face, he looks every bit the part of the young Santa Fe, the picture of wide-eyed contentment.

"What's your name?" he asks the server, his body turned away from the table.

"Daniel, but my friends call me Dano," he says. He can't be a day over twenty-two.

"Daniel, I need you to set us up with six tequila shots, two for each of us," Kurt says with a wink. 

"Right away," Daniel says, before shuffling off to the bar.

"Kurt—"

_"Paul?"_ Kurt replies, one eyebrow quirked up in challenge. He shifts back toward the table, pours the last of the champagne into his glass and drinks it down.

"Never mind," Paul says, settling back in his seat. He glances at Blaine, a slight blush on his cheeks. "I swear, he knows the name of every person who has ever waited on us."

Kurt leans back against the settee, arms folded, glaring at Paul. Blaine forces a smile. They're off the rails. He should say something, say the thing Kurt needs to say, anything to get them back on track, but the tension is thick, a knotted rope tied ‘round his throat. 

Paul fidgets with his glass, and then tries again. "Blaine here was telling me that he broke up with Liam. But he said he's not single, so I'm—"

"Really, Paul? Really?" Kurt interrupts.

"What? He said he wanted to propose. Am I wrong? Are you single, Blaine?"

Blaine shifts his gaze to Kurt. "Not remotely, no."

"See? He doesn't mind talking about it," Paul says. 

Kurt rolls his eyes, stares him down. The silence is brief, but painfully awkward, both Paul and Blaine trying to find their footing. _Why doesn't he just tell him? Why bother fighting over a wedding that will never take place?_

From under the table, Blaine can feel Kurt's leg bouncing up and down, a nervous tic. He watches as Kurt's face heats up, his lips pursed together in a thin line. 

"Darling—" Paul begins.

"All these years I've just been another item on your to-do list. Moving me around like a fucking intern. A fucking _intern,_ Paul."

"That's not true—"

"It most certainly _is_ true."

"Couldn't we go upstairs? We haven't been together in weeks," Paul pleads.

"Whose fault is that?"

Paul smiles nervously at Blaine and says, "I'm sure Blaine doesn't want to hear us fight."

Kurt glances at both of them, then up at the ceiling again, his voice a loud whisper: "This is a fucking nightmare."

_Let me climb across the table, to you, for you. Let me sooth your worry with reminders—a look, a nod, a thumbprint on your wrist. Let me get to you. Keep you. Let me try._

"Kurt—" Blaine starts, but before he can get another word out, Daniel returns carrying a tray laden with six generous shots of tequila, a dish of lime and lemon wedges and three tiny personal saltshakers. 

"Blanco," he informs them, as he places everything on the table. 

"Blanco? Is that a brand?" Paul asks, jumping on a chance to diffuse the tension.

"No. Blanco means it was bottled immediately after the distillation process," Daniel explains. 

"It preserves the agave flavor," Kurt adds, licking his the back of his right hand. 

"You know your tequila," Daniel says.

"I'm learning," Kurt replies. He sprinkles salt on his hand, licks it, and downs his first shot without sparing the rest of them a glance. 

Daniel clears all evidence of their first round. "Flag me down for the next round."

Kurt pulls a wedge of lemon from his mouth, wipes his lips with the back of his hand. Back straight and brow furrowed, he looks like a hurricane waiting to happen. He says, "You two better catch up."

Blaine and Paul follow suit without question, their faces grim as two soldiers about to be sent off to war. Kurt wastes no time; he licks his hand again, readies the salt. 

"Let's toast. Tonight is the beginning of the story, isn't it? The story we tell our grandchildren, about how this battle finally ended," Kurt says, sprinkling more salt. 

Blaine follows on automatic pilot, stunned. Kurt is angry, and buzzed, and on his way to blitzed. There's no telling what he'll say, or do. 

Kurt raises his glass high, a cue. He waits until the other arms are up and then looks at Blaine, eyes beginning to mist. It's only two seconds more, but in that moment, in the waiting, is a longing Blaine had thought was gone forever. There is want, and the cage around it. There is hope, waning. There is despair. 

And then, when the old familiar pain is almost too much to endure, Kurt simply says, "To love." 

Blaine holds his gaze. "To love."

Kurt brings his glass to his lips, offers Blaine a sad smile. Paul mutters something about "the sweetest toast" as Blaine chokes down his second shot, leaving the citrus in the bowl. _Let it burn. It's nothing compared to this._

He lets his eyes wander around the room, everything turned up and everyone a bit off thanks to Old Man Gloom and third, fourth, fifth rounds of liquor. He lets the sound of Kurt and Paul fade into the background as Kurt bites and Paul works his charm—too smooth, too shiny. Blaine lets his heart swell, bolstered by belief and sheer will, by ten thousand memories and days unspent. 

The tequila races through his veins, settles into his face, the tips of his fingers. Silently he wills Kurt to look at his phone, to come back to the task at hand, to remember. He's a witness to the drama of a relationship that should have been over by now. They should be up in Blaine's room, his arms wrapped around Kurt. They should be falling into sleep, his hand rubbing calming circles onto Kurt's lower back, whispering, "Baby, I love you" over and over again into his hair. 

It's a hideous feeling, waiting for the end. 

Blaine is drawn back to the table when Daniel appears again, saying, "What's up? Do you need something?"

Kurt stares at him for a moment and then inexplicably starts to laugh. He flops back on the settee, his body loose and sideways. 

"What'd I say?" Daniel asks.

"I have no idea," Paul says. He sighs, opens something on his phone and begins scrolling through it.

"Could you bring us some water?" Blaine asks.

Kurt sits up, still giggling. "And tequila!"

"None for me, thanks," Blaine says.

Kurt points at Blaine, then Paul, and then himself. "Two, two, two. Set us up, Dano."

"His name is Daniel," Paul says, still looking at his phone.

"But we're friends. Aren't we friends, Dano?"

"No worries, man. You can call me Dano. I'll be right back with your drinks."

As soon as Daniel is out of earshot, Paul sets his phone down and turns to Kurt. "You seem determined to do this here, in front of your friend, so I'll say this now before you drink so much you black out, " he says. "It's not like you to hold on to your anger like this, and it worries me. This crusade—isn't it ours? Aren't we together on this? I'm surprised you've taken this so badly, and I want to make it right, if I can."

"You can't—fuck, I'm all fuzzy. Just because I believe in your work doesn't make what you did okay," Kurt says.

"You're right. I apologize for jumping the gun, for acting without your approval. I want you to be happy. It's all I've ever wanted. Please forgive me?" 

Kurt licks his lips, considers Paul. His face softens. "I wanted—I _do_ believe in you. You know that, right?"

"Yes."

"And I'm so very proud of you," Kurt says, his words slurring. 

"I'm proud of you, too—"

"No, I—don't be. You shouldn't—"

"But I am proud of you, darling," Paul says. "This victory is as much yours as it is mine."

Kurt's face falls. "Oh. I, uh... never mind."

Watching Paul miss the point is almost as painful as watching him touch Kurt. He wants to fill Paul in, give this to Kurt, help Paul get it just to see Kurt smile at something true and beautiful, just to see Kurt feel loved in all the ways that matter.

Kurt is shredding the napkin now, no pristine folds, no pretty patterns. "I am angry. But I—we set it up this way, and I was okay with that, because—sometimes—I shouldn't have. Oh, fuck, this is hard."

"What's hard?" Paul asks.

Blaine braces himself, lays his palms flat on his thighs to keep himself from jumping out of his chair and climbing into Kurt's lap to block out the world, keep him safe.

Kurt huffs out a little self-conscious laugh. "I'm—I'm a little drunk."

"It's okay. Could you—you know I meant well, don't you?"

"You always mean well, Paul. It's your best quality," Kurt says.

"You'll see. It will be beautiful—a winter wedding. In your home state. And then we can finally get on with it."

Kurt looks at Paul. His face is so sad, Blaine can hardly take it. "We have a lot of plans, don't we?"

"Yes. Yes," Paul says, leaning in. 

Kurt looks down at the napkin again, now strewn about in tatters. His voice is soft and liquor-lazy when he says, "Do _you_ need something, Paul?"

"Sorry? I don't—"

"Something... else?"

"I have you, why would I need—?"

"Because I do."

Blaine sucks in a breath, wishes for arms long enough to reach under the table so he can steady Kurt's knees, hold his hand.

"I need something, Paul, and... and I didn't want to tell you like this, or ever, really, but—"

"Whatever you need, we'll get it. Okay? I know I've been gone a lot and maybe haven't noticed—"

"No, it's not about—oh god, I'm a little _too_ drunk for this," Kurt says, his face pale and flushed.

"Let's get you up to your room, okay? You need to sleep it off and then we'll start fresh in the morning. It'll be a new day. Because it is a new day, Kurt. It's a beautiful new day in our country and we're going to be married and you did that, you're part of that, the way you loved me and supported me—isn't that something to shout from the rooftops? Isn't that something worth telling the world, even if it means answering a few interview questions?"

_Damn._ "A hundred little valentines," Blaine mutters.

"Hmm? I didn't hear you," Paul says.

Blaine looks at Kurt, growing paler by the second, and says, "It was nothing. Doesn't matter."

When Daniel arrives with the drinks, Paul drops a wad of cash on the tray. "Thank you. This should cover everything, but we won't be needing the last round," he says, and turns to Kurt. "Come on, let's get up to your room. We have a lot of catching up to do."

Kurt stands up abruptly, a look of panic in his eyes. "Wait," he says, his hand on Daniel's arm. He picks up one of the shot glasses and swallows the tequila, without ceremony. Very quickly, he moves on to the next. He's on to his third before either of them speaks up.

"Whoa, Kurt—"

"That's enough," Paul says, stilling Kurt's hand with his own. _Twelve._

Kurt shakes off Paul's hand off and downs the shot. "You both just spin move me where you want me, don't you? When and where—everything is you, you. Everything."

"Come on, let's get you upstairs," Paul says, nodding at Daniel in an effort to get him to leave. 

One arm around his waist, Paul guides Kurt to the door, Blaine trailing close behind. Kurt struggles a bit and then gives up, makes an effort to walk straight. "I'm fine with it. I'm so good at that," Kurt mumbles. 

When they reach the lobby Paul says, "Are you on the same floor—?"

"No, I'm on the second floor. He's on the fourth," Blaine says. "Let me help you get him to his room."

"No, thanks. I've got him."

Paul starts to make his way to the elevators, and then turns to look over his shoulder. "I don't know his room number—"

Blaine wants to keep Kurt with him so badly he has to practically spit the words out. "Room 416."

Paul nods, whispers something in Kurt's ear. He walks Kurt past reception, past the giant fireplace, past the coffee-colored armchairs arranged in a square. There are too many touches to count, now. He's all over Kurt, protecting him, keeping him safe. 

Blaine is underwater. He is sinking, sinking fast. He watches as Kurt's knees give and fights the urge to rush to him, to hold him up, to swim to the surface. _Let me._ He watches as the elevator comes down, the numbers lighting up at each floor, each second stretching out as though he still has a chance, as though he could make this right; as though he isn't at the bottom of the sea, tangled up in kelp, praying to be rescued himself. _Let me._ He watches as the doors open and then close again, this time with his love inside. _Let me._ He can't hear him, he can't see his face; he is drowning.

By the time he makes it back to his room Blaine is beside himself with worry. His mind swims with too many questions, fueled by ancient insecurities he's slipped back into like a second skin, as if Santa Fe never happened... as if his worst fears did not burn up in flames tonight, but came true, instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will post the remaining chapters and epilogue by Friday night. Stay tuned. :)
> 
> Thanks to Mimsy for every little thing. (She knows.)


	12. Chapter 12

It’s still early when Kurt wakes, the sun creeping into the room despite the heavy curtains, forcing him to face the day and all he has yet to handle. His head is caught in a vise-grip, his stomach empty but still tied up in knots. He’d complain, but he deserves every last agonizing moment of it. 

Getting embarrassingly drunk was a dick move—he should have just told Paul right then and there, but he was already slightly tipsy by the time he and Blaine left Antonio and Sarah’s party, and in order to deal, to take care of two hearts and remember his own, he needed all his wits about him. 

Opening his eyes all the way, he whispers, “You’re full of shit.” It’s still too loud for this epic hangover, this massive mess. 

In truth, getting drunk was the only way he could avoid sex without outright telling Paul why he never wanted any other man but Blaine for the rest of his days. 

Glancing around the room, he’s not surprised to find the other side of the bed empty, nor is he surprised to find two little ibuprofen pills next to a glass of water on the bedside table. There’s also a note: 

_Went for a run. Breakfast at ten and a phone interview (both of us!) at noon. It would be perfect if you would cancel your afternoon so we can roll around a bit until our dinner reservations at eight. April found a lovely Italian restaurant downtown, Il Piatto. Love you!_

It’s all very familiar—the hand at his back, the gentle persuasion, the surest fix for every problem. He’d long since abdicated to Paul; he let him lead, and fuss over him, and steer them in the right direction. He’d let him take over and paint their future in “appropriate” colors, fill in the gaps, patch up the holes. He let him do this because it wasn’t something he’d yearned for, or planned for; it wasn’t something he’d dreamed up one rainy day after a perfect boy took his hand and showed him a shortcut to the promise of total acceptance. 

For _that_ future, he would have had much to say. He would have stayed up until the wee hours of the morning weaving possibilities with interlaced fingers, playing with ideas and soft curls, laughing, and planning, and plotting, and hoping, and sharing in the creation of something inevitable, and rare, and true.

But with Paul he just nodded and smiled. He rearranged his iCal, and toned down his wardrobe, and generally felt fine with all of it, his handsome compromise.

He _let him_.

Still, Paul also pulled a dick move. Sending out a press release about their wedding, setting a date without discussing it with him—it was classic Paul James. They were both dicks—the more so because they let it all play out in front of Blaine. 

He reads the note again and groans. He now has reservations at Il Piatto with two men—Paul at eight, Blaine at eight-thirty.

_Fucking hell. What is my life?_

He spots his phone charging on the desk next to his wallet, which is open and lying flat. His clothes are folded neatly on the corner chair, the little in-room coffee pot full, a clean cup and saucer next to it. He’s a bit woozy when he stands up and stretches the kinks out of his back. _How the hell am I going to make it through this day?_

He pulls out the desk chair and sits, reaches for his phone and turns it on. He sees a few texts from Deidre, one from Anthony and several from Blaine, all unread. The latest from Blaine shows up on his screen at the very top.

**Blaine:  
Call me when you wake up. I need to know you’re okay. And please read all of my texts.**

He ignores the other messages and reads through his entire text exchange with Blaine, including the last few he hasn’t seen. 

****_I love you. I love you. I love you.  
I am that person.  
Don’t forget that, baby._

This. This is how he will get through the day. Somehow he will find the courage to tell Paul everything and send him back to New York to dismantle the life they built together. He’ll call Deidre and Antonio and explain that he needs to take the day, and when it’s all over he’ll meet Blaine at the restaurant. He’ll be ready, then—to start over, to become the person he was meant to be and be with the man he has loved so long. 

His forefinger hovers over Blaine’s name in his phone—how many times had he called him? So many, too many, and not enough. The marathon phone sessions when Blaine was this miracle, this boy who was proof of all that is good in the world, this giant. The shorthand. The drawn-out calls they’d had trying to fit in every detail of their big, beautiful, grown-up lives. Then, the distance in Blaine’s voice. The too-long, awkward pauses. The goodbyes. 

He thinks back to the first time he called Blaine, so nervous to make good on his promise to “call if you need to talk;” how he looked at Blaine’s name in his phone like it was his secret gift and then, mustering every bit of courage he had, touched Blaine’s name with his finger—the same finger poised to call Blaine now—and called the boy that made him smile. 

Blaine answers on the second ring.

“Kurt?”

“I’m okay. Terribly hungover, but okay,” Kurt says, his voice hoarse from screaming at Zozobra the night before.

“Do you need some ibuprofen? Can I bring some to your room?” 

“I took some. Thank you. Blaine, I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t. It’s a mess. You were upset. I get it.”

“It’s going to be okay. Right? Can you tell me that?” Kurt says.

“Of course. Maybe not at first, but—you’re strong, baby. You can say what needs to be said. You’ll be okay.”

“I wish you could be here with me.”

“I’ll come right now.”

“No, I… I need to do this alone,” Kurt says. He moves to the door, listens carefully. “He’ll be back soon. I’m going to tell him this morning and then I’ll come to your room. Will you wait for me?”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to help you tell him?”

“No, no. That was a bad idea. I need to give him the respect of privacy.”

“He can be very… never mind.”

“What?”

Blaine sighs. “He can be very convincing, Kurt.”

He can hear the concern in Blaine’s voice, shaky and soft. So Kurt says, “He can try to change my mind all he wants, but that has nothing to do with my heart.”

Blaine is quiet for a moment; Kurt hears just the sound of his breathing. And then “I’ll be waiting.”

“Go back to sleep. Keep your phone near you, okay?”

“Yes. Of course. I won’t be able to sleep, so call me anytime.”

“Blaine?”

“Yes.”

“I love you, too.”

Kurt hurries through his shower, not wanting Paul to return before he’s finished and get the brilliant idea to join him. As he goes through his routine, he practices what he’ll say, how he’ll start. “I’m in love with Blaine,” he says, as he washes his hair. “I can’t marry you because I love someone else,” he says, as he works conditioner into his hair from roots to ends. “I’ve been lying to myself, and to you, and I’m so very sorry,” he says, as he scrubs his body too harshly, skin red from the friction and heat. “Please forgive me,” he whispers, as he stands under the shower spray, rinsing clean. 

He runs a towel over his hair and then ties it around his waist. He brushes his teeth. Just as he’s coming out of the bathroom he hears it: a knock.

_Him. It began with a knock. No. It began with a song. Or maybe a hand, holding mine. No, no. It began with a wish, a tiny kindness, a word: courage._

Assuming he must have changed his mind and come to help him tell Paul, Kurt steels himself to see Blaine when looks through the peephole. Instead it’s Paul in his running clothes, hair wet with sweat, waiting. He opens the door.

Paul looks him up and down and smiles appreciatively. “I hope you knew it was me when you opened the door.”

“Yes, I checked.”

He kisses Kurt on the cheek and walks past him toward the desk. “Did you know one of your key cards doesn’t work? I must have grabbed a different one this morning, because the other card worked fine last night.”

_Shit._

“I, uh—”

“You didn’t know?” Paul asks, fishing the other key card out of Kurt’s wallet and slipping it into his pocket. 

_Shit. Shit. Shit._

Kurt shakes his head.

“You were hoping I would be able to join you, weren't you? That’s why you asked for two.” Paul asks, eyes gleaming.

“We didn’t plan on it, so—”

“Oh,” Paul says, disappointed. “Did they automatically give two cards when you checked in?”

Kurt could say easily say, “Yes.” He could nod in agreement and that would be that. “ _You can’t be a liar, too, Kurt_.” His dad’s warning rings in his ears and he can feel Blaine urging him on from two floors below. He can do this. He can. He will.

“No, they didn’t.”

Paul is unfazed. “Next time tell Deidre not to leave her key card at the bottom of that cesspool she calls a purse. She didn’t actually stay in the room with you, did she?”

“No.”

“I’ll just take this one down to the desk and switch it out while you finish getting ready,” Paul says, holding up the other card.

Paul looks up at Kurt then, and frowns. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Are you not feeling well after last night?”

Kurt looks at the key card in Paul’s hand. He swallows, wills the words to come out of his mouth— _I can’t marry you because I love someone else; I’ve been lying to myself, to everyone; please forgive me_ —but he can’t stop staring at the card.

Paul follows Kurt’s eyes to the card in his hand. He looks back at Kurt, expectant. 

“Paul…” The words stick in his throat as he looks at Paul’s gorgeous face, tense with confusion. 

“Fuck, this is hard,” Kurt exhales. He runs his fingers through his hair, still damp from the shower. 

Paul looks at Kurt, eyes widening. His face heats up as he palms the card and squeezes around it, hard. 

“Paul, I need to tell you something—”

Before Kurt can finish, Paul walks past him and out the door. Kurt runs after Paul, opens the door wide and realizes he can’t follow because he’s not dressed. 

“Paul, wait!” Kurt shouts down the hallway, but Paul ignores him. 

He rushes back into the room. _Shit. Shit. Shit!_ Heart pounding, he opens a drawer, pulls out a clean pair of jeans and a t-shirt and dresses as fast as he can. By the time he makes it out the door and down the hall, Paul is getting on the elevator. Paul turns to face the doors, his face like stone. 

“Paul! Please!”

The elevator doors shut and just like that, Kurt’s heart is in his throat. Feeling around in his pockets, he realizes he left his phone in the room and has no key card to get back in. He spots the red EXIT sign and flies down the stairs, barefoot, heart beating out of his chest. His mind races with images, the worst, the absolute _worst_ possible ending, the soundtrack one refrain: _Blaine, Blaine, Blaine, Blaine._

Bursting through the second floor stairwell entrance, Kurt scans the hallway leading to Blaine’s room. Paul is there, moving from door to door like a robot, swiping the key card twice at each room, just to make sure. Room 201, Room 202, Room 203…

Kurt runs to him, grabs him by the arm. “Paul, stop!”

Paul yanks his arm away and moves on to the next door, his face the picture of steely determination. He’s only three doors away from Blaine’s room, just moments from unlocking the door and discovering the truth. Hoping Paul will assume the next door is Blaine’s, Kurt crosses to the other side and blocks Room 205 with his body. He says, “Someone will call security! You can’t be arrested—it will be all over the news.”

“Move.”

“Paul, please. It’s not what you think—”

Paul scoffs, turns around to face Room 206 and swipes. The little dot above the handle lights up green and the door unlocks, a soft click that echoes in Kurt’s heart like a life painted on glass, falling onto concrete. 

Paul turns the handle on Blaine’s door and opens it wide, the door banging on the inside wall. Kurt can’t move, can’t speak; he can’t even scream. 

From inside, Blaine calls out: “Kurt? You didn’t call. Are you okay, baby?”

Paul winces and looks back at Kurt, his eyes filled with rage. He takes his hand off the door and walks inside. The heavy door swings to close and Kurt bolts for it, catching it just before he’s shut out of the room. 

He finds his voice. “Paul, don’t—”

“Kurt—oh _fuck_ ,” Blaine says, running right into Paul, who stops short at the entrance to the main room.

Blaine backs up toward his bed, eyes on Kurt. Paul follows, sizing up the room. Shaking, Kurt grounds himself by positioning himself against the wall. He takes in Blaine, his sleepy eyes full of concern, his hair messy and his chest bare. He wants to go to him, wrap an arm around him, sink into his space. But the tension in the air is like a chain around his ankles; it keeps them apart. Blaine says nothing, and Kurt knows they’re both waiting for Paul to light into them, to attack and prod and blame, because they deserve it; it’s their due.

Paul looks at Blaine, who somehow manages to own the room despite Paul’s height advantage and the trouble at hand. 

“Those are my pajama pants,” Paul says, his voice flat.

_Oh, shit._

“I thought they were Kurt’s.”

“He borrowed them from me,” Paul explains, staring at the dove-gray cotton pooling around Blaine’s feet. 

“It’s not what you think…” Kurt starts, searching for words.

“You said that,” Paul says, sitting down in the corner chair. 

Paul stretches out, extending his long legs. He plays with Blaine’s key card, twirling it with thumb and forefinger in both hands. Only yesterday morning Kurt climbed into Blaine’s lap on that chair and played with the hair at the back of his neck. He can still feel Blaine’s strong hand on his thigh, holding him there as they exchanged soft kisses and planned their day.

“Let’s find out if it is what I think,” Paul begins, hands stilling as he looks over at Kurt. “I think you’re fucking your friend. Am I wrong? Are you fucking him, or have you just been having slumber parties and sharing each other’s clothes?”

Kurt looks down at his own clothing and realizes he’s wearing Blaine’s Berklee t-shirt again. _Shit. It just keeps getting better._ When he looks back at Paul he’s met with the disdainful look Paul reserves for his most hated detractors. He had hoped it would be better—not easier, but better. Different. He had hoped he wouldn’t ever be on the receiving end of that Paul James stare.

“I’m in love with him,” Kurt says.

And that’s it. He’ll tend to Paul’s heart as best he can, but there’s no going back, now.

Paul’s eyes darken as he stretches the moment out way past awkward. For a moment it looks as though he might cry, but just as quickly he pulls himself together, sits up taller in the chair and tosses the key card at Blaine’s feet. 

Paul looks at Kurt and says, “Were you safe?” 

“What?” Kurt asks.

“Am I going to have to get tested?” 

Kurt moves to Blaine’s side. “Did you hear me? I said I’m in love with Blaine.”

“I heard you.”

“What does it matter, we’re not—wait. You think I’m—you want to take me back?” Kurt asks.

“Take you back? Since when did we break up?” Paul asks, getting to his feet. “You’re lonely. You fucked around. I’m pissed, and I’m quite sure that underneath this anger some part of me is shattered, but… this doesn’t change anything.”

Blaine moves closer to Kurt, folds his arms in a protective stance. They are inches from the edge of Blaine’s bed, the same spot where Kurt declared his love for Blaine just days before. Though he knows Paul deserves this moment to say his piece, Kurt can’t help looking at him like an interloper, invading a sacred space.

“No, I… I’m in love with him,” Kurt says. 

Blaine says, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry, Paul. I can’t imagine what you must be thinking—”

“ _You do not talk._ You don’t say anything!” Paul shouts. 

Kurt says, “You deserve to be happy—” 

“I am happy!” 

“I just told you I cheated on you and you’re happy? We’re kidding ourselves, Paul. We tried. We both tried—”

“It’s cold feet, that’s all. People have flings. The distance and my schedule—it happens. We just need to spend more time together. We need—I’ll take two weeks off. After the vote, we’ll go away together. We’ll forget this ever happened and plan the wedding and—”

“Paul!” Kurt interrupts. “It’s not a fling. It’s _not._ ”

Blaine unfolds his arms and reaches for Kurt’s hand. It feels like too much, lacing his fingers with Blaine’s in front of Paul, but words are not working. And it is too much. At the sight of their joined hands, Paul reels back like he’s been punched.

Again, Kurt hears his father’s voice. “ _Whatever happens, you owe it to him to tell him the truth. All of it_.” 

“I’ve been lying to myself and—I didn’t know, when I met you—I wanted to get over him, but I… it’s not possible,” Kurt says, squeezing Blaine’s hand. The feel of Blaine’s fingers interlocked with his own takes him back to that very first day. Now, and ever more, he is that boy on the staircase. Now, and ever more, he will want the same ending to this movie that is their lives. “I’ve always been in love with Blaine. And I always will be.”

“So you’ve been fucking him all these years?”

“No.”

Paul leans back against the dresser, his body blocking the mirror. He sighs. “How long?”

“Just… just this week,” Kurt replies. 

Kurt looks at the window, at a thin patch of light shining through the curtains. In the uncomfortable pause, he is transported to the morning after that first night, when he left the bed in his own room to pull back the curtains and let in the day. He felt no guilt that morning as they watched the brilliant sunrise, clutching each other, holding off goodbye. There was no hope of requited love, no promise of a future, of destiny fulfilled. There was only searing grief, tempered by the tender touch of the man he thought would never be his, a love he was sure he could not keep.

“We didn’t plan it,” Blaine says, breaking into the silence. 

Kurt shoots a warning look at Blaine. He looks like he wants to say more, but instead he snaps his mouth shut, his eyes on Paul. Kurt follows his eyes and gasps. Before him Paul is crumbling; somehow he looks smaller, stripped of his veneer and hurting, hurting so badly. This is a side of Paul he does not know.

He lets go of Blaine’s hand.

“I owe you an explanation,” Kurt begins, moving closer to Paul while still giving him space. “I wanted—I take full responsibility for this. I thought I could love you knowing it wasn’t enough. I thought I could _make it_ enough. I tried. I really did.”

“We were so young when this started, and we didn’t know how to handle our feelings,” Kurt continues. “There were so many missed opportunities and bad choices. I think we were both waiting for the other person to figure it out, and then we just gave up. And I’m so sorry, Paul. If I had ever thought there was a possibility that Blaine would return my feelings, I never would have said yes—”

“I’m your Plan B? Is that what you’re saying? You couldn’t have him so you settled for me?”

“No, I… I didn’t know I had a chance—”

“And that’s better?”

“I genuinely thought I wanted the life we made,” Kurt says, inching closer. “If it was going to be anyone else but Blaine, it would—”

“Don’t you say it. Don’t you fucking say it,” Paul whispers, shoulders shaking.

Kurt’s eyes well with tears and he pushes the heels of his hands onto closed eyelids to make it stop. It’s not his moment to cry. “I’m so sorry—”

“We should have told each other, long ago,” Blaine interjects. “It would have saved everyone so much heartache.”

Paul scoffs, glaring at Blaine. “You should probably shut up.”

“You deserve someone who loves you completely,” Kurt says, reaching out to touch Paul’s arm. When he doesn’t flinch, Kurt squeezes gently, steps a little closer. 

Paul says, “You never answered my question.”

“What question?”

“Were. You. Safe?”

Kurt panics, remembers the last time, the feel of Blaine’s bare cock inside him, the way they forgot themselves, the way they didn’t care and didn’t talk about it and didn’t regret it for one minute. It had felt so right, so deserved. And yet now, standing before this man who loves him, this man who trusted him, it’s clear that it was _not_ right, or deserved. It was an act of selfishness. 

“Kurt, just tell me,” Paul presses. “Were you safe?”

Kurt squares his shoulders and steps back a bit. “No. Not every time.”

Paul tilts his head a bit and looks at Kurt like he’s a stranger, like he’s someone to fear. He looks down for a moment, then back up at Kurt, this time with wet eyes to match Kurt’s, the mask gone. On instinct Kurt moves to comfort him, but before he can lift his arms Paul pushes off the dresser and lunges for Blaine, knocking him to the ground. 

Kurt hears the thud of Paul’s fist connecting with Blaine’s face and rushes to pull them apart. Before he can get to them, Paul throws another punch, but Blaine turns his head away. Paul cries out in pain when his fist hits the floor and then he’s on Blaine again, trying to pin him. 

“Paul, no! Stop!” Kurt yells, as he tries to get between the two of them. He pushes Paul back enough for Blaine to get two hands up on Paul’s chest and hold him away. Kurt holds on to one of Paul’s arms, but he can’t seem to get him off of Blaine.

Paul breaks free from Kurt and lifts his arm, ready to do damage. 

“Paul! Stop!” Kurt shouts. He jumps on Paul and tries to yank him off of Blaine. He manages to pull Paul back enough for Blaine to get out from under him and scooch back toward the wall; he sits up against it, wincing in pain.

Kurt goes to Blaine, crouches down to his level. Hand on Blaine’s chin, he turns his face from side to side to assess the damage: an eye that will surely be bruised the next day and a tiny cut above his right eyebrow, most likely from Paul’s ring.

“I’m fine,” Blaine says, tilting his head away from Kurt’s hand.

“What the fuck, Paul?” Kurt says, looking back at him.

Paul is breathing heavily now, clearly shaken. He sits on the edge of the bed and stares at his own hands; he says nothing. 

“Let me get something for that cut,” Kurt says, moving to stand. Blaine grabs hold of his hand and pulls him down to sit next to him, then brings their joined hands into his lap.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Blaine assures him. 

Kurt leans back against the wall and surveys the room. Aside from the two of them on the floor, one bleeding, and the dejected man on the bed, nothing looks out of the ordinary. No furniture overturned. No clothes strewn about. No evidence of that which has been broken, of three hearts beating off rhythm and much too fast. 

Suddenly he’s looking down on the scene, feeling that familiar yet absurd wonderment. “ _It’s an aerial moment_ ,” Blaine had said that first night in this magical, weird city, sitting on Deidre’s kitchen floor. Blaine held his hand then, too, like he had so many times before, his thumb on Kurt’s wrist. There was something different about that night—possibility, a dormant connection woken up by fate, a chance, terrifying.

Now, in this moment, there is a similar sense of danger, the unknown laid out before him like an empty desert highway, endless, the horizon not a destination but a thin line where sky meets clay.

Paul slumps over, stares at the floor, his hands on the back of his neck. 

“We fucked up,” Blaine says to Paul, his tone strong but apologetic. “Kurt is everything to me, and I’m not giving him up. This is bigger than us. This is true love. But I know we made a mess of things, and I apologize for that.”

“And I’m sorry you had to find out this way,” Blaine continues. “I’m sorry you were dragged into this at all, but it’s meant to be. What are the odds we would run into each other, here of all places? It was inevitable.”

Paul looks up then, flexes his fingers and then shakes out his right hand. Then he turns to them and says, “You’re both full of shit. Fucking cowards.”

He stands, picks Blaine’s key card off the floor and pockets it. 

“True love. Please. You say this is true love, and yet you let fate handle it? Bullshit,” Paul says. “Do you think we’d have national marriage equality if I waited around until the time was right? If I didn’t push and push and push for it? The time was ALWAYS right, and I wasn’t going to stand around waiting for a bunch of narrow-minded closeted cocksuckers to give me the green light.

“You think this is real? That this is meant to be? Fuck that,” Paul continues. “If this were some epic, ‘ _inevitable_ ’ love, you would have fought for each other. You didn’t even TELL EACH OTHER how you felt, let alone fight for what you wanted. Pining after each other while you fuck other people? While you promise _your future_ to OTHER PEOPLE? That’s love? That’s meant to be? Don’t kid yourselves. That’s not love. That’s a fantasy, that’s—if you wanted each other, you would have done something about it. You really want something in life? You go get it.”

Kurt is in shock. Paul is rattling off some version of their truth like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like they’re not idiots, but deluded. _Cowards. Deluded, cheating, asshole cowards._

The old fears creep up like a bad dream, pushing at the soft corners of his mind, blanketing his short-lived happiness with age-old shadows.

Blaine squeezes Kurt’s hand like he knows, like he can read his mind and feel his fears. Paul steps forward, towers over them, and Kurt is acutely aware of how vulnerable they are. He feels small, and young, and… caught.

“What were you doing with me, huh?” Paul asks. He looks off to the side, eyes fixed on Blaine’s bed. “I would have swum the ocean to get to you, Kurt.” 

Kurt gasps. Next to him, he can feel Blaine tense up; the hold on their intertwined hands loosens, and he’s not sure which of them initiated it. 

Whatever he expected from Paul, it wasn’t this. It never occurred to him that he would find their story ridiculous—unbelievable, even. Ask him to stay, yes. Call him a cheater and tell him to get out, yes. He could have dealt with most of these outcomes. But Kurt never expected Paul to hold a mirror up to Kurt’s own face—close, too close, like the unforgiving makeup mirror his mother kept on her vanity that revealed every line, every blemish, every scar not visible in plain sight.

Without another word, Paul walks out, the door slamming loudly behind him. The sound is like a gunshot, snapping Kurt to attention. He slips his hand out of Blaine’s grasp and stands up, starts pacing around the room. The guilt, once blissfully absent from his psyche rears up like a giant bear woken up from hibernation a month too soon. It will crush him, this guilt. It will tear him apart. He can feel it coming down hard; there is no escape.

“I’m such an asshole, oh my god,” Kurt says.

From the floor, Blaine says, “Then we’re both assholes.”

“I can’t believe I—Blaine, this isn’t me. I’m not a liar. I don’t cheat. I don’t hurt people with my reckless behavior—”

“We couldn’t help ourselves, we love each other—”

“That’s bullshit. Are you listening to yourself?” 

“Kurt, we handled this badly, yes, but please don’t make it sound like we’re some reality show rejects, here. That’s not what this is, and you know it.”

“We cheated, Blaine,” Kurt says, voice resigned as he sits down on the bed.

“I’m aware of that.”

“We didn’t use a _condom_.”

“I know. That was—”

“I don’t do that, Blaine. I _don’t_. I think somehow I lost myself, I forgot—but it didn’t feel that way. It felt like I was finally waking up, like I was actually remembering something, something I needed—”

“Kurt, stop. Don’t you realize what’s just happened?”

“I think I do, Blaine—”

“Paul knows. He knows, now, and we can finally be together,” Blaine says, pulling himself up. He sits down on the edge of the bed next to Kurt, one leg up so they can face each other.

Kurt looks at him, touches his cheek, a barely-there brush over his sore eye. “Your face.”

“I’m okay. I deserved it.”

Dropping his hand, Kurt says softly, “I’m not sure _who_ I am anymore.”

“Baby, why? I know this was awful, and intense, but—”

“I always use a condom.”

“Why are you stuck on that? Yes, it was unsafe, and that’s not like you, or me. But I’m clean, you’re clean. We’re okay,” Blaine says.

“Because I would never—because he’s right.”

“About what? Kurt, no—”

“What would you have done if we hadn’t run into each other?”

“Kurt—“

“Because I would have married Paul. I would have loved you and missed you and when it was safe to do so I would have cried for you. But I had no plans to tell you. And you might want to tell me that you would have come for me eventually, but those are just words,” Kurt says, shoulders slumped in resignation.

“Baby, you know how sorry I am that I didn’t—”

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why _didn’t_ you come for me? Why didn’t you tell me everything?”

“I told you—I didn’t know how and then I thought you were lost to me.”

“But it shouldn’t have mattered,” Kurt presses. He’s done it now. He’s cracked the one box they were afraid to open, the one brimming with difficult questions, and bitterness, and pain.

“I did try to tell you. I sang a song for you, but you didn’t listen,” Blaine says, his brow furrowed.

“You fucked Adam while I was in the next room!”

“Kurt! Seriously?”

“Yes! Do you have any idea how much that hurt—”

“You were with Caleb—”

“And every other time? Wasn’t I worth fighting for?

“Of course!” Blaine says, voice raised. “But Kurt, why didn’t _you_ try harder?”

Kurt looks at the floor. “I told you how I felt.”

“We were kids! Are you telling me I blew my chance with you at sixteen and that was it?”

“Clearly not. I did just cheat on my fiancé with you.”

“Stop. Wait. What is happening here?”

Kurt stands and starts pacing again. He’s distraught, the words and memories swirling around them in a frenzy. He’s panicked now, the weight of their indiscretion and the old fears pressing down on every inch of him. “I don’t know. I just—vacation is not reality. This place is—maybe we’ve been kidding ourselves.”

“Are you saying you’ve changed your mind about us?” Blaine asks, his voice strained.

“No, I just—could I breathe for a minute? I feel… out of my body and—I just don’t think the issues we had are going to disappear just because we finally admitted we had—”

“Issues? What fucking issues, Kurt?”

“We had every opportunity, Blaine. Why didn’t we take just one?”

Blaine stands, arms crossed. “I thought we just did.”

Kurt is wild, now, as he lets it all back in; the old hurts stack up like bricks between them. “You’re saying I’m worth it now? Why not two weeks ago? Or ten years ago?”

“You moved on! You pushed me away and—I tried. I tried to get you to come with me—”

“Where? To London?”

“Yes! That day, I told you how I wished I could take you with me—”

“And is that what I’m supposed to do now? Hmm? Drop everything and move to London to follow you?”

“Whoa. Fucking hell, Kurt. These aren't our issues you’re worried about. These are _your_ issues.”

Kurt stops pacing. He takes in Blaine’s red, angry face, the hurt in his eyes. He shouldn’t say it, the last thing. It could shatter them forever, but he has to do it. Because it’s real, and it can’t be avoided. 

“I may be a mess about this, but Blaine, you spent years jerking me around, confusing me with your innuendo and charm. You were oblivious to my feelings and I can’t help but wonder now…”

“What? Just say it, Kurt.”

Kurt sighs, slips his hands into his pockets. “I can’t help but wonder how you could love me so much and still not see me.”

Blaine’s eyes go wide, as if he’s seen a ghost. 

“Well, looks you two are off to a good start.”

Kurt turns to see Paul leaning against the wall near the bathroom, a bucket of ice under one arm. 

“Paul, I—”

“Here,” he says, looking at Blaine as he drops the bucket on the dresser. “For your face.”

Blaine forces out a “thank you” and then folds his arms again; this time he is the one sizing up Paul.

“I’m going home,” Paul says to Kurt. “I think you should come with me and sort this out. I think you owe me that.”

Paul turns on his heels and leaves, the door slamming shut behind him. Kurt falls into the chair, head in hands.

“I don’t even know who I am anymore. I don’t—I would never do these things to another human being. Why was it so easy?”

“There’s nothing easy about this.”

It’s his own damn fault. Paul has done nothing but love him, and move them forward while Kurt remained passive and agreeable. How could he complain about Paul’s shortcomings and compare him to Blaine when he had gone along with all of it, without question? If he’d lost some part of himself it was his own doing, and splitting up with Paul wouldn’t mean getting that part back. Running off into the sunset with Blaine wouldn’t give him that part back either, for that matter. That was his job, and his alone. 

His tone is sad and wistful when he says, “In the beginning I thought we’d end up together eventually, like Harry and Sally. I kept thinking we were just caught in the second act, that soon you’d realize you loved me and come for me. But you never did.”

“Why did you leave it all up to me, huh? I was a kid.” 

Kurt looks up at his love, this man he has adored for so long. They’ve done so much damage—to themselves, to each other, to the men they recruited as substitutes. A tear falls down his cheek. He wipes it away, but more soon follow. He says, “If we were supposed to grow up together, how can we be sure we grew up at all?”

Blaine steps back, lands on the bed as if someone has pushed him. “I don’t know.”

Kurt crosses to Blaine, stands before him and takes his face in both hands. He smiles at him through watery eyes. He knows what he has to do. 

“Do you know what I wrote down on my paper, the one I dropped in the box for Zozobra? I wrote that I was afraid this wasn’t real. I was afraid that we wouldn’t last outside of this place…”

Blaine is crying now, too, tears in lines down both cheeks. Kurt wipes them away with his thumbs, but they just keep coming.

“I need to go, love.”

“Kurt—”

“I don’t recognize myself. I haven’t for a long time. I need time. I need to breathe, figure out what I want to do.”

“You’re going back with him.”

“I’m going back to New York, yes. But not with him. There’s no one else for me but you. I just—I need to face what I’ve done and make some decisions outside of this.”

Blaine reaches up and pulls Kurt’s hands off of his face, holds them in his own. “How long?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m not giving up.”

“I hope not.”

Kurt leans in, presses his lips to Blaine’s. The kiss is soft, barely there, a sharp contrast to the feel of Blaine’s hands on his hips, fingers digging in, sure to leave marks. Pulling back, he sees the question in Blaine’s eyes, and the disappointment. He wants to soothe his worries with definite promises of where and when, but he won’t do that. Not while there is still so much for him to face.

“Go, then,” Blaine says, his voice flat.

Kurt kisses his forehead. And then he’s walking away from him, his heart. As he leaves he slows the closing door with one hand so it will shut quietly; he’s not looking for an ending.

Bare feet sinking into soft carpet, he walks to the elevator, his own heart numbing from the inside out. When the doors close he pulls Blaine’s t-shirt up and uses it to wipe his face. He will not cry in front of Paul.

Back on the fourth floor, he knocks on the door to his room and waits. Paul opens it almost instantly, then retreats back into the room, clearly on a mission. He has all of their suitcases open on the bed, the curtains pulled wide and CNN on the television. 

“Our flight leaves in four hours. I called for a car. It will be here in an hour.”

Kurt nods and gets to work; there’s no point in correcting Paul’s audacious expectations. He may be going back with him, but he is not going home.

He’s on autopilot as he packs—shoes in bags, pants on hangers, jeans rolled up, toiletries secured. He stashes away his treasures, trinkets he bought for Finn and his girls, for his parents, for himself, leaving one box out next to his carry-on. He texts Antonio and Deidre with promises to explain later and packs his carry-on with files, his sketchbook, his laptop and chargers.

When the front desk calls to inform them that the car has arrived, Kurt is ready. As he leaves he does not look back at the room, the bed, that place near the door where he hugged Blaine, held him close, reveled in the wonderment of _finally, finally, yes please, finally_. 

In the lobby, he separates from Paul and walks quickly to the reception desk. He goes through the motions of checking out like a robot, his answers monosyllabic, his face a mask of polite response. Once finished he takes out the small wrapped box, slides it across the counter and says, “Please see that Blaine Anderson gets this.”

Outside he slips on his sunglasses, walks down the steps and meets Paul, waiting for him near the town car.

“After you,” Paul says, holding the door for him. 

Kurt slides into the backseat and situates himself behind the driver, as close to the door as possible. He stares out the window, his body rigid and unwelcoming. This may be the longest “walk of shame” ever known to man, but that doesn’t mean he has to give into Paul’s silent demands. That he’s not sure how to sort out the last ten days, or the past fourteen years, or tomorrow and the day after that, is beside the point. Right or wrong, Kurt has always made his own choices, and he will not be swayed.

It seems only a moment has passed, and they’re already approaching the exit for I-25. On earlier trips, he never paid attention to the signs and markers; he was always focused on getting back to New York, on gossiping with Antonio, on his phone, his schedule, his plan, his project. Now, with miles of highway in front of them and this strange, beautiful city behind him, he is struck with a sense of loss so profound, so all-consuming, he is once again that boy on a bus bound for Chinatown, willing himself not to cry.

He lets the people, and sounds, and moments, and colors of his Santa Fe heart fill him up as he stares at the car’s immaculate floor. Antonio’s arm around his shoulder; a bowl of green chile; the smell of ash and burning paper; Sarah’s infectious smile. The boots, and the promises, and the ancient rites. The sweet honey on sopapillas, hot from the oven. Adele’s laughter. Kisses—for the first time, on a dance floor, compelled by a song; in a bed, trying for too much; quick coffee-flavored pecks they’d ducked into Burro Alley for; and one more, the last, the one he hoped would carry them, keep them, help them find their way.

Just before La Bojada, the tall hill that will obscure any view of Santa Fe, he turns for one last glimpse out the back window. Somehow, the picture soothes him. Somehow, the landscape is different: the endless sky, the slope of desert rolling into mountains. Somehow, it’s no longer just a place; it’s a beginning.

“You’ll see,” Paul starts, breaking into Kurt’s thoughts. 

Kurt turns, expecting to find Paul staring at him with hopeful eyes, but instead he’s met with a profile as Paul stares out his own window. _Does he know I found my heart here? Does he know the dirt is magic, that it heals? Or is it just a place to him? Another campaign stop, another ally on the map?_

Perhaps sensing Kurt’s eyes on him, Paul turns, his expression guarded behind sunglasses and well-practiced neutrality. 

“I’m going to forgive you,” Paul says.

“I’m… I’m so glad. I hoped you would.”

By the time either of them speaks again they’ve passed two casinos, sprawling oases in the desert. Kurt isn’t ready for the big conversation, the one in which they strategize announcements, divide up furniture and friends. So instead he says, “I’ll stay with Harper until you head back to D.C.”

“He’s a mess. And a gossip,” Paul says. “He’ll have told everyone by tomorrow morning.”

“Not if I ask him not to say anything.”

Paul grunts. He maintains disdain for Kurt’s friend Harper Abbott’s life of leisure, despite the fact that Harper had helped raise millions for President Cuomo’s presidential bid. 

“He will tell even _more_ people if you do that,” Paul warns.

Kurt shrugs. “So I’ll get a room at the W.”

“I wish you’d let me manage the situation. Just come home. I’ll stay in the guest room. It’s only two nights.”

He looks at Paul, a sad smile on his face and thinks about how easy it would be to just fall back into it. The life, the work, the friends, the promise. He could pretend that the last few days were just a dream—a beautiful, life-defining dream—and get back to the world he built with Paul. It was a good life. It is a good life. 

But it’s no longer home.

The outskirts of Albuquerque are upon them when Paul takes hold of Kurt’s hand and says, “I don’t mind, you know. Being second best.”

It’s heartbreaking and suffocating, watching Paul holding onto him for dear life. He loves him too much to let him beg.

“It’s not about that,” Kurt says, letting Paul keep hold of his hand. “It’s what I’ve always wanted and I can’t turn my back on it now. I’m sorry.”

Paul gives his hand a tight squeeze and then lets it fall back into Kurt’s lap. “You’ll see,” he says, looking out the window again. “Sometimes we have to let go of the life we hoped for in order to live another life. Just because you can be sure of me doesn’t mean I’m not worthy of your consideration.”

“You think I’m crazy, don’t you? Reckless,” Kurt says. 

Paul is quiet for a moment, and it’s too long—long enough to make Kurt shift in his seat. They’re turning off the highway toward the airport exit when Paul finally says, “I don’t think you’re crazy.”

Seconds later Paul mutters, not softly enough, “I think you’re a fool.”

It’s like a punch to the gut, his own deepest fears on the lips of the man he wronged. Paul is astute—you don’t climb to his position without keen instincts and the ability to size up people and situations. He knows in his heart that Paul is wrong, but the old nagging worry keeps creeping in, blurring the edges of what he knows to be true. 

The driver pulls up to the departures drop-off and Kurt is out of the car, hauling his own bags from the spacious trunk. Paul tips the driver and they walk into the airport and up to the first class check-in in single file, as if on some fashionable death march. 

There is one couple ahead of them, so Kurt turns away from Paul and glances around the airport; anything to distract him from the tension between them. In the main hall vintage planes hang from the ceiling, including an orange wonder right out of the Wright brothers’ “impossible” fantasies. It reminds him of summer days, his back on the grass and his eyes on the clouds as the Blue Angels danced along a powder blue sky.

Stepping up to the counter, Paul hands his ID to the agent and nudges Kurt to do the same. Kurt slides his ID toward her, hoists his larger bag onto the scale and then glances back at the plane. It looks like a sculpture, like it couldn’t possibly fly. But it did fly, once upon a time. It _did_.

“Have a good flight,” the agent says as she hands him his boarding pass. He looks down at it—ABQ to ATL to JFK—and then hands it back to her. 

“Kurt?” Paul asks.

“I’d like to change my ticket. One ticket to Dayton, Ohio, please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter tomorrow morning, and then the epilogue tomorrow night. Enjoy!
> 
> As ever, thanks to Mimsy.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another "PRESS PLAY" chapter, with songs. For the last YouTube video, please just listen as you read, as usual, but then when you are finished reading the story, please watch the video as well. The events in the video are in the story.

The thing about driving in the heartland is, there are vast expanses of road and not much else—billboards offering free breakfasts with hotel stays and the occasional sign citing dubious science about beating hearts. And when there is nothing else, there is no way to avoid thinking that one thing you _don’t_ want to think about. 

Mile after mile, the memories enveloped him—from the moment he first set eyes on the fresh-faced Warbler, eyes shining, brimming with confidence, to the very last look on Blaine’s face just before Kurt left: sad, resigned, maybe a little hopeful. On the long road home the memories slid together and apart like scrims on a stage, transparent, painted in watercolor, a love in pictures.

Kurt sips his mocha, stares out at the vast expanse of dark nothingness and contemplates his next move. He’s not even sure what town he’s in, just that the green Starbucks sign had beckoned him off Highway 30 and now he’s sitting in a rented Toyota in Nowheresville, Indiana, wondering how the hell he made such a mess of his life.

_Did I really walk away from him, just moments after I got him?_

_Yes, Kurt Hummel. Yes you did._

The ground had been shifting beneath his feet for days; he was not the same man who arrived at the Albuquerque airport nearly two weeks ago. Half a lifetime rising above and making the most of things, and suddenly there was no need; suddenly the secret wish he had tucked away under layers of well-intentioned living was fulfilled. _Real_. Telling the truth about what he wanted, taking it, feeling no shame, turning toward the beautiful scary thing, it rattled him; like an earthquake of the soul.

He hated leaving Blaine, but it was the right thing to do. Changing his plans last minute in favor of returning to Ohio was also the right decision, no matter how important it was for him to sort things out with now-ex-fiancé. Sure, Paul would have to deal with the reporters’ questions on his own, but Kurt was quite certain he preferred that anyway. Besides, it was Paul’s own fault, issuing a press release without discussing it with Kurt.

Paul was incredulous at first, but in the end he opted not to make a scene. He simply picked up his carry-on and marched off to his gate. 

In the end Kurt decided that flying into Chicago, renting a car and making the four-and-a-half-hour drive to Lima would be faster than a layover in Minneapolis. Now, with two hours of highway behind him, he’s only an hour outside Fort Wayne. Time to make a decision. 

He should call home, he really should. But he hasn’t so far, and with every Midwestern mile before him he dreads it more and more. It’s not that he doesn’t want to face his dad; he’ll have to see him, and explain everything, and hope he isn’t judged too harshly. It’s just that he’s not ready yet. He needs a soft landing with someone who will simply be thrilled to see him, no matter what he’s done or how long it’s been since they’ve talked about more than routine updates require; someone who just wants Kurt to be happy, simple as that. Someone who will get him drunk and not ask too many questions about why. Someone who knew him before Paul, before Blaine, before all of it.

Kurt thumbs through his contacts and presses the number he’s ignored for far too long.

“Kurt?” 

“Hey, Finn. Is this a bad time?”

“Nah. Just catching up on some grading, watching the game,” Finn says. “What’s up?”

“I’m not far from you, actually. About an hour away. May I come over?”

It’s after nine o’clock when Kurt comes up on the outskirts of Fort Wayne, and just a few minutes more before he’s parked on a quiet street in front of Finn and Erin’s small yellow colonial. He smiles when he notices that Finn has left the porch light on for him. As he walks up to the door he’s hit by the sweltering humidity, a sharp contrast to the bone-dry heat of Santa Fe’s high desert.

Finn swings the door wide not ten seconds after Kurt rings the bell and immediately grabs Kurt in a giant bear hug. He smells like soap and freshly mown grass; like home.

Once inside, Finn carries Kurt’s bag to the first floor guest room and then ushers him into the kitchen. 

“I shouldn’t have rung the doorbell,” Kurt says, glancing around the newly remodeled “country chic” kitchen. He helped Erin come up with the color scheme over email and is pleased now to see that she followed his suggestions and nixed the blue in favor of tangerine. On a bulletin board next to recent pictures of Meg, a school calendar and an impressive drawing of a unicorn, Kurt notices an old picture of the New Directions after their first performance, curled up a bit on the bottom corners. 

“S’okay. Meg can sleep through anything and Erin passed out in bed while she was reading to her. She’ll only wake up if she has to pee or eat.” 

“How’s she feeling? Everything okay with the baby?”

“Other than the fact that he’s kicking Erin’s ass, everything’s fine, yeah,” Finn says, digging through the refrigerator. “I have pop, and orange juice and beer. Take your pick.”

“Beer’s fine,” Kurt says, ignoring Finn’s look of surprise. “When is she due again?”

Finn smiles. “Thanksgiving, just about.”

“Wow. Are you ready?”

“You’re never really ready,” Finn says, motioning for Kurt to follow him into the living room. “But you know, the baby comes whether you’re ready or not. You just deal.”

Kurt sits on one end of the sofa, Finn on the other, the muted television turned to ESPN. Finn leans across, clinks his bottle with Kurt’s and says, “I thought Dad said you were in Arizona, or something.”

“New Mexico.”

“Right. That the place with the aliens?”

“What aliens?”

“In Roswell. Aliens landed there I think,” Finn says, glancing at the scores running along the bottom of the television screen.

Kurt laughs. “Yeah, well, I didn’t go there. I was in Santa Fe, primarily.”

“Awesome. Would I like it?”

Kurt imagines Finn gobbling down plate after plate of green chile, traipsing through the artsy Santa Fe Railyard, looking for treasures, trying to hold his robe closed waiting for treatments at Ten Thousand Waves. “Yeah. I think you would.”

“You on your way to Mom and Dad’s?”

“Yes.”

“They didn’t say you were coming.”

Kurt looks at Finn, shrugs. He plays with the label on his beer bottle, softening from condensation. He can tell Finn wants to ask _What’s up, why are you here, are you okay?_ And while he’s grateful his brother has grown into a man of decorum and patience, he wishes Finn would just drag it out of him.

Kurt remembers how, when he would come home from Dalton on weekends, Finn would trail behind him like a shadow and ask him question after question. “ _Are they giving you any trouble? Any Karofsky’s I need to know about? You’ll tell me this time won’t you, if you don’t feel safe?_ ”

Maybe Erin trained Finn not to be so nosy, or maybe he’s just older and less inclined to think that he has to save the day and lead everyone to victory.

“Did you know?” Kurt asks.

“Did I know what?”

“That I was in love with Blaine in high school?”

Finn turns to him, eyebrows raised. “Pretty sure everyone knew. I thought you were dating the entire time, until you started going out with the Cable guy.”

“Caleb.”

“Right. What a douchebag.”

“You really thought Blaine and I were dating?”

“You were with each other _all the time_. And you were always touching each other, and you know, you’d get happy whenever he was around.”

“Yeah.”

Finn looks at him like he’s trying to figure something out and says, “What brought this on? You getting cold feet?”

“I ran into Blaine in Santa Fe. We were staying at the same hotel.”

“By accident? 

“Yes.”

“Wow.” 

“Yeah. Wow.”

Finn takes a swig of his beer, then another. “Dude, that’s—I mean that is _really_ … you don’t think that’s kind of like a giant sign?”

“How so?”

Finn looks at his beer, then abruptly stands up and leaves the room, throwing a “hang on a sec” over his shoulder. He returns moments later with a bottle of Wild Turkey and two shot glasses.

Kurt scooches forward on the couch so he’s closer to the coffee table. “When did you graduate to this stuff?”

“Believe it or not, Erin turned me on to it.”

“Innocent little Erin?” Kurt asks, as he accepts the shot from Finn.

Finn laughs, then leans in to whisper, “She’s not so innocent.”

“Do tell.”

“She’d smack me for telling you this—and don’t tell Mom like, ever—but we didn’t meet at the library. We met when I helped her down off of the roof of her ex-boyfriend’s truck. We were at the same house party. Erin was half-dressed and drunk out of her _mind_ , singing a song made-up mostly of curse words. She looked like she was gonna fall, so I—”

“Came to her rescue?”

“Sort of. She wasn’t happy about it. She wanted to finish her song.” 

Finn smiles, caught in his memories, and shifts his attention back to Kurt. “So look, I like Paul. He’s real smart and he seems to think you’re amazing, so I can’t fault the guy just for being, I don’t know, a little _much_ —”

“Erin’s words?” Kurt asks.

“Yeah. But I don’t care about him. I care about you. And—it’s okay that I’m saying this now, right? Like, if you’re going to end up marrying the guy I don’t want it to be weird at Christmas, you know?”

Kurt laughs. “Not happening. Just say it.”

“You weren’t yourself with Paul. I mean, it’s not like you were a completely different person, like _Invasion of the Body Snatchers_ or something. You were just… less you.”

“It’s okay. I know.”

“Good, I don’t want to piss you off,” Finn says. “It was definitely worse with Paul, but that had been happening for a while. Like, we were all growing into ourselves and you were just, I don’t know—doing something else.”

Kurt sits up taller. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, it’s like—hanging out with you was like hanging with Kurt, but on dimmer.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Finn settles back into the couch, “I don’t know. We only see each other once a year. I didn’t want to mess up your time at home. And honestly, I didn’t think about it too much. I figured you said you were happy, so you must be happy. Was that wrong? Should I have, I don’t know, staged some sort of Kurt-intervention?”

Kurt smiles. “What with like a flash mob or something?”

“Totally! We could do a medley of gay songs.”

“Gay songs?”

“Yeah, like that Donna Ross song they always play at Columbus Pride,” Finn says, eyes big with excitement. “It goes, _‘I’m comin’ out, I want the world to know_ …”

Kurt looks at Finn—earnest, well-meaning, loyal-and-true Finn, Finn who labels songs “gay” but drives to Columbus every June to take his family to Pride, Finn who is a good brother and a decent friend—and laughs. He laughs so hard he falls back on the couch, belly heaving, legs splayed. He laughs and laughs, and then he’s laughing because he’s laughing. 

When he calms down Finn has stopped singing and is smiling down at him. Kurt sits up just a bit, his body lax. “I came out when I was fifteen, Finn.”

“Dude, _I know_. It’s a metaphor,” Finn says, pouring bourbon into two shot glasses and handing one to Kurt. He clinks his glass against Kurt’s and says, “Rock on.”

“Cheers,” Kurt says as they both take their shots. “And it’s _Diana_ Ross, not Donna Ross.”

The alcohol burns; it’s not his favorite but it will do the job. He looks around the living room at the little touches, the evidence of a life well lived—a toy box in the corner; a green afghan crocheted by Carole (his is blue) over a brown leather recliner; Finn’s high school football jersey, framed and under glass; two stacks of pop quizzes, one graded and the other ungraded, on the coffee table; wedding photos and portraits of Meg proudly displayed on the mantel above the fireplace; the set of six Tiffany champagne flutes he gave Finn and Erin as a wedding gift, neatly lined up in the hutch.

It’s all right out there for anyone to see. There are no secret parts of Finn hidden in a box in a closet, no forgotten dreams locked up in storage, no pieces of his past he’s afraid to show, much less honor. Finn isn’t holding anything back or wishing he were somewhere else; he isn’t denying himself in any way.

“Where’d you find the New Directions picture, the one in the kitchen?” Kurt asks.

“Meg took it out of one of my photo albums. I don’t know why she put it up on the board, but she won’t let us take it down.”

“We were such babies.”

“You especially, with your chubby baby face,” Finn teases.

“Back then you couldn’t have told me I would become an interior designer. Buying stuff other people make and arranging it for people with no taste, instead of singing on Broadway? I would have slapped anyone who told me that—verbally, of course.”

Finn snorts. “You got me good a few times, dude.”

“With a pillow! I hit you with a _pillow_ , Finn.”

“And a turkey leg. Don’t forget the turkey leg.”

“ _Ugh_ , are you ever going to stop talking about that fucking turkey leg? Kurt asks.

“Nope.”

Kurt tosses a pillow at Finn’s head; it lands on the floor. They both laugh, then Finn pours two refills and hands one to Kurt. 

“I’ve done a lot of things I never thought I’d do, since then,” Kurt says, looking in the direction of the kitchen. He doesn’t have to see the picture to know that look in his eyes, that fierce determination, that black-and-white morality, that certainty. 

“Yeah, well—it’s not hard to fuck up. It’s the easiest thing in the world, doesn’t make you a bad person,” Finn says.

Kurt takes his shot and motions for Finn to do the same. They both chase the burn with a sip of beer, then Finn continues, “After what I did to Rachel, breaking up with her five times—”

“Seven.”

“Seven times—after that, I sure as shit didn’t think I deserved to be happy. But when the chance literally fell into my arms I didn’t think twice, man.”

Kurt looks over at the mantle, at Finn’s girls, smiling. “I’m going to stay a couple of nights. Is that okay? Will Erin mind?”

“Nah, she’ll be stoked.”

Finn flops back against the couch; Kurt follows. They stare at the television for a few moments, quiet, and then Finn says, “So how is Blaine, anyway?”

Kurt smiles, eyes still on the screen. He wants to say, _He loves me, and he’s amazing, and I left him because it felt like too much, but he loves me. He loves me._

But all that comes out is, “He’s good.”

***

 

Surprisingly, Mitch’s old black leather couch is quite comfortable for sleeping. After two days and nights camped out in the studio, Blaine is ready for some sunshine. He’s made it up to the guesthouse twice to shower and change clothes, and over to the main house a few times to shovel home-cooked food into his mouth and thank Mitch profusely for his hospitality, but other than that he’s mainly been stuck in these two rooms.

Stepping out into the courtyard, Blaine squints up at the stunning azure blue sky. He’s heard Sarah call it “Pecos blue”—something about a memorable camping trip she and Antonio took in the Pecos National Forest, further north of Santa Fe than Galisteo. Out here where the horizon stretches on forever and every hour brings a new picture postcard, it’s easy to feel like you’ve been dropped into an epic movie, one you can only appreciate on the big screen.

Blaine slips two fingers into his pocket and pulls out the small folded-up piece of paper he’s been transferring from one pair of jeans to another since Kurt left. That day he slept for hours, and when he woke he knew—he had to get out of there. The hotel held too many memories for him, so he packed up and checked out, intent on taking Mitch up on his invitation to crash at his guesthouse.

As he turned away from the reception desk, Amy called after him. “Mr. Anderson, I almost forgot. Mr. Hummel left this package for you.”

The box was small, no bigger than a postcard, wrapped in purple paper with gold stars. He tore off the paper and into the box as if he’d find all of the answers inside, but instead he found a large chocolate sacred heart milagro, covered in what looked like hand-painted silver foil. 

Stunned, Blaine traced the edges of the heart. How had Kurt known about the milagros he had offered up in the Santuario? Had Antonio told him? 

Inspecting the box further, he noticed a folded-up piece of paper stuck to the inside of the lid. On it, Kurt had copied the poem “I carry your heart” by e.e. cummings by hand. Blaine read the poem twice, mouthing the words as he stood there in the lobby of the Eldorado with no concern for who might be watching him. 

_i carry your heart with me (i carry it in_  
my heart) i am never without it(anywhere  
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done  
by only me is your doing, my darling)  
i fear  
no fate (for you are my fate ,my sweet) i want  
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)  
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant  
and whatever a sun will always sing is you 

_here is the deepest secret nobody knows_  
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud  
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows  
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)  
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart 

_i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)_

It was then Blaine knew that whatever this separation was about, it was only temporary. 

Driving out to Galisteo later that day, the cut on his face was a stinging reminder of Paul’s accusation that their love was a joke, that if they really wanted each other they would have fought for each other, or at least tried harder. Blaine couldn’t get his wits about him at the time, but he wanted to say so much to Kurt about that, about why:

 _Maybe we couldn't be together, then. Maybe we'd like to think we should have been, but maybe we would have broken up. Maybe this is our time, and everything is perfect, and we shouldn't regret the missed chances because we took the only one that mattered_.

By the time he had the presence of mind to say all of these things, Kurt was gone and all that was left to do was write about it. 

When the sun came up on Sunday he had two songs written—one simple piece with a catchy melody that he showed to Mitch, and the other a melancholy song he decided to keep for himself—and a good start on a third. It felt like cramming for an exam, each song an answer to one of Kurt’s questions, or one of his own. 

And it wasn’t just his own music he worked on while he practically lived in Mitch’s studio—somehow, in the midst of his creative purge he had figured out how to make “Forever Man” work.

Stuffing the poem back in his pocket, Blaine takes off in search of more of the relentless New Mexico sun, and a little exercise. Right off the back gate a trail runs parallel to the main house over to the stables, so he follows it. In his mind he hears Adele singing the song they’ve tried to hard to get right. It was a good song, maybe even a great song. But both Blaine and Adele knew it could be a phenomenal song, on par with “Someone Like You,” so they kept at it. Now, Blaine is sure of the song. He’ll wait for Adele to show up this afternoon and confirm it with her miraculous voice, but it’s only a formality.

Rounding a corner, the main house in view, Blaine notices the front door open and is surprised to see Deidre walking out. Like he did, she squints into the sun. When her eyes adjust she spots him on the trail. He doesn’t have to be able to hear her to know that she’s probably saying, “Fuck” or some other curse word.

Almost immediately she’s marching toward him, her oddly normal ponytail bouncing behind her as she walks. He meets her halfway.

Sparing him a greeting she says, “This is not what it fucking looks like.”

Blaine chuckles. “Okay,” he says.

Two weeks ago he would have scoffed and thought, “Yeah, right.” But he’s been on the other side of the looking glass now and he knows while the old adage “where there’s smoke, there’s fire” is true, in situations like this, things rarely are what they seem. 

“Nothing happened,” Deidre stresses.

“Okay,” he replies again, this time with a reassuring smile.

“Would you stop looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“I didn’t fuck him, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Stop saying that!” Deidre shouts, her voice loud enough to wake the dead.

Blaine raises both hands in the air as though she’s holding a gun to him. “Ok—sorry. Want to take a walk with me?”

“A walk? Why?”

Blaine shrugs. “Don’t know. Just thought I’d offer.”

Deidre looks back at the house, at her expensive rental, parked in Mitch’s circular driveway. On her feet she wears simple pink flats—not great for hiking in, but they will get her down to the stables and back.

It’s the most awkward walk he’s ever shared with anyone in his life. He tries to talk to her, but she only offers mumbled responses. Music still in his head, he starts to hum, and then sings softly, trying out the lyrics for one of his new songs: “I don’t think you’re right for him. Look at what it might have been if you took a bus to Chinatown. I’d be standing on Canal and Bowery.”

The song takes him back to a time when he still thought he and Kurt would end up together, back in college, Kurt and Rachel still visiting Blaine in Boston every spare weekend they had; before Adam, and Caleb; before all of the boys and men who weren’t right for them. 

He stops when they reach the paddock next to the stables. Deidre is so tense even the horses seem to sense it, staying far away from the fence. He tries small talk, tells her that when he’s driving out to Galisteo from Santa Fe, he always thinks of that U2 song, “Where the Streets Have No Name.”

“I love that song,” she says, finally.

“Come back to the studio with me,” he says. “I’ll put the song on your phone and you can listen to it on your drive back up to the Waves.”

Deidre doesn’t answer him at first. Hands on her hips, she looks out at the horses, at the vast landscape; her mask of indifference falls away in the quiet between them. Face turned toward the sun, at last she says, “He’s not in New York, by the way. He’s in Ohio.”

“What? Why?”

“Fuck if I know,” Deidre replies. “Paul wouldn’t tell me more than that, just that Kurt didn’t go back with him after all, that he went to Ohio instead.”

Blaine can’t help himself—he grabs Deidre, lifts her up and spins her around. She seems surprised, and even giggles a bit, her cheeks flushed when he puts her down.

She comes back to herself quickly. “Aww, we’re you worried he would go back to the most handsome, eligible bachelor in all of New York?”

He waves a finger at her and starts back toward the studio, a new spring in his step. “Uh-uh, lady. I’m not falling for your drama.”

He’s walking fast and she’s tiny; it takes her a few seconds to catch up to him. “I can be—I know I should apologize, but I won’t, because I really hate doing that… but I’m… thinking it.”

Blaine laughs. “Don’t worry about it.”

He hadn’t let himself think too much about the possibility that Kurt would decide to go back to Paul; he hadn’t let himself think about much of anything at all, poring everything into his music, instead. Yet, now that he knows that Kurt never even made it back to New York; that he went home, back to where their story began; back to where he has family who loves him; Blaine is overcome with relief. 

They’d had had so little time together before it all blew up in their faces, and there was so much left to repair, and decide; thinking about any of it would have sent him into a tailspin. He realizes now that his worries and emotions were there all the time, he had just left them on page after page of sheet music—where they belong.

As they reach the point where Deidre joined him in the walk, Blaine sees Adele walking from the main house to the studio. 

He says, “I have to get back to the studio. See you later? Maybe? Or not. Either way, thanks for the walk.”

He’s almost to the studio when Deidre catches up with him again, dust covering her shoes. She taps him on the back. “What if it’s worse?”

He raises one eyebrow in question, waits impatiently for clarity.

“What if it’s worse than an affair?” Deidre says, looking him straight in the eyes. “What if I like myself around him? A lot? What if talking with him makes me feel like I could be different or… more?”

Blaine looks at her, this hard-edged, tiny woman who seems to be experiencing for the very first time what he felt more than a decade ago, and holds out his hand. “We’re recording a song I wrote today. Will you stay and let me know what you think?”

Deidre offers him a half smile, and then takes his hand. 

Later that day, after they work on “Forever Man,” the band assembles and they record the first new song for Blaine’s album, ["Ho Hey."](http://youtu.be/zvCBSSwgtg4) Mitch wants to lay down one track with everyone at the same time; Blaine knows he’s looking for a special feeling for the song, that he wants to capture the energy of the group, the way they have risen up to support Blaine, the way they celebrate him.

Deidre pouts in the corner, holding a tambourine Mitch will not let her play, until Blaine winks at her. Somehow the day in the studio has softened her. She’s smiled more times than he can count and actually managed to be friendly to almost everyone. 

Looking off to the corner at Adele and Kit, he shakes his head. He still can’t get over Adele singing backup for him. Even after all they’d shared, even after all they’d accomplished together, he still can’t get over the fact that he knows her, that she loves him; that she believes and trusts in him. He wants to tell Kurt all about it, but he can’t. 

So, instead, he sings: “I belong with you, you belong with me, you’re my sweetheart.”

Despite the inherent angst, with the band backing him up, and the happiness in the room, the song is bright and fun. Mitch has that look on his face, the one that betrays his excitement, which means he likes it enough to make sure it’s great. 

Take after take, whether he’s in the booth or sitting next to Mitch at the board, Blaine is on autopilot. Without his love, all he can do is make music. That he is willing to share it, and record it is a supreme act of faith, but like everything else, he can’t think about that too hard. So he works. He sings, and plays, and listens, and sings again. And again. And still more until Mitch leans back in his chair, a satisfied look on his face and says, “Now, what about the other song?”

He doesn’t want to sing it tonight—they’ve had a great day, and the song will change the feel of the night, take them to another place, a place he has been avoiding for two days.

“Let’s hear it one time through, and then I’ll sleep on it,” Mitch says. There’s a casual ease in Mitch’s voice, but it’s not a suggestion. 

Blaine nods, then goes to the booth, Adele at his heels. He can feel her staring at him as he sits down at the keyboard, finds the sheet music for ["Honey Please."](http://youtu.be/wlPqLLKHmSo) and lines up each page. When her stare becomes uncomfortable, Blaine says, “What?”

“Don’t worry so much.”

“I’m not worried, I’m just… impatient.”

“Tell me another one,” Adele says, sitting down next to him on the bench.

“It’s not a _lie_.”

“It’s only me, you know. Nothing wrong with having one person you can fess up to.”

Adele rests her head on his shoulder for a moment and then leans over the keyboard to peek at his song. Her lips move as she recites the lyrics to herself. He whispers along with her: _Don’t tell me so, I know. Don’t try to fight, hold tight. Don’t be afraid of what we made. Love is always right._

When she comes to the last sheet she picks it up and holds it in front of his face. “It’s okay to be pissed. Or sad. Or whatever-the-fuck-ever you feel.”

“It’s just—what if ‘more time’ stretches on into years, into all the days? Are we ever going to be able to just… start?”

“I think we’ll all die from heartbreak if you don’t get your happy ending,” she says. 

He looks at her and tries not to crumble. If he can just stay focused on the song, he can handle not hearing from Kurt. He can handle wondering, and waiting, and feeling like shit about all of the years lost and the mistakes they both made. He can handle being sure of Kurt, and their love, even though Kurt is not sure of himself. 

After a moment Adele squeezes his arm. “Fear not, my lovely,” she says. “Mind if I sit with you while you sing?” 

Blaine kisses Adele on the cheek. “Not at all.”

***

 

When Kurt pulls into Hummel Tires & Lube late Monday morning, he is nursing a three-day hangover. 

He spent Sunday with Finn and the girls, Meg squealing with delight when she realized her Uncle Kurt had come for a surprise visit. She tugged him around with her as if he was her pet, showing him every doll, every LEGO set, every sticker book in her playroom, and then forced him to sit through two hours of her favorite YouTube videos, most of which made no sense to him. He loved every minute of it.

In the afternoon he sat on the porch with Erin and watched Meg ride bikes with her neighborhood friends. Now seven, she had started to grow like a weed; being Finn’s child, she towered over her friends of the same age. 

Later that night, after a backyard barbeque reminiscent of every summer Sunday in the Hummel-Hudson household, the adults stayed up late talking. Finn and Kurt managed to kill the Wild Turkey bottle and the rest of the beer, thus marking the third night in a row that Kurt had gotten drunk out of his mind.

Now, as he steps out of his rental car, Kurt’s head feels like it’s caught in a vise, his body sore and heavy. “Never again,” he mumbles, walking toward the main office. 

It’s quiet in the shop for a Monday, just two guys working on a few cars. He spots Jim, his dad’s must trusted employee, and waves. Jim smiles big. “Hey, big city. Whaddya know?”

“I know you need a haircut,” Kurt shouts back. Jim laughs and Kurt carries the familiar feeling of camaraderie into his dad’s office, for a moment forgetting that he’s about to face the firing squad.

He finds his dad crouched down, searching through his old, beat-up four-drawer filing cabinet. He looks the same, maybe a few pounds heavier, a little bit older. 

“Hey Dad,” Kurt says.

Burt turns toward him and stands up, using the file cabinet for leverage. He’s got Kurt in a tight hug before he says, “Good to see ya, kid. You hit much traffic?”

A few minutes later Kurt follows Burt out of the shop out into the parking lot, carrying two cups of coffee and a bag of donuts. As Burt passes Kurt’s rental he says, “They all out of American cars?”

Kurt laughs, shakes his head. “Come on, Dad. You know Toyota makes cars for Chevy.”

“The whole damn world is turned upside down,” Burt mutters, climbing into the back of Henrietta. 

A 1956 Ford pickup his dad got for a song just before Kurt’s mom passed away, Henrietta was the shop’s mascot. Burt had intended to fix the truck up and sell it but Kurt loved it “as-is, Daddy,” which really meant, “as it was the last time she saw it,” so he parked the truck and there it remained. 

Just as he’s done dozens of times before, Kurt climbs over the side and sits on one of the two plastic crates they use for seats. He looks in the bag and fishes out a glazed donut for his dad, a chocolate cake donut for himself.

“So, did you do the right thing?” Burt asks, taking a sip of his coffee.

“You get right to it, don’t you?” 

“Saw your name in the paper yesterday. Something about a November wedding?”

Kurt sighs. He knew there was no way to stop the press release. He also knew that Paul would not want to be the source of any gossip or controversy that could possibly cast a negative light on equal marriage so close to the vote. So he wasn’t entirely surprised to see the brief article in _USA Today_ announcing their marriage in the context of exploring the viability of the forthcoming bill.

“Did you tell him or not?” 

“I did, just… not before he had already approved he press release,” Kurt explains. “There isn’t going to be a wedding.”

As Burt eats his donut, Kurt gives his dad the abbreviated, cleaned-up version of the last couple of weeks. He watches his face closely, looking for any signs of disappointment, but Burt’s neutral expression gives nothing away. 

When he’s finished, the giant “to be continued” hanging in the air, they sit in silence for a few moments, looking out at the sunflower field behind the shop. They’d planted the rows and rows of flowers when Kurt was just four years old, his mother’s idea for brightening up the overgrown lot that had previously been used as a graveyard for junk cars. How many days had they sat out here in Henrietta, staring out at his mother’s sunflowers while they ate a quick lunch or finished off ice cream cones from the Dairy Queen down the street?

Finally Kurt can’t wait anymore. “I’m so sorry, Dad. I know I should have told Paul right away, before I did anything with Blaine. I should have told him a long time ago that—”

“That you don’t love him?”

“No, I do love him. Just not… not the way you should love someone you want to spend he rest of your life with. Anyway, I’m sorry that—”

“Kurt, stop. You’re a grown man. You don’t owe me an apology for a mistake you made that doesn’t affect me.”

“I know, but I feel just awful about—”

“Kurt,” Burt interrupts, his large, strong hand gripping Kurt’s shoulder. “Don’t you think it’s time you forgive yourself?” 

“I hardly think a couple of days is enough time to forgive myself for cheating on Paul, Dad.”

“No, son. When are you going to forgive yourself for giving up? You were just a kid. You thought you had a bucketful of chances left, all the time in the world, and you were _supposed_ to feel that way. Don’t keep punishing yourself just because you weren’t ready for the real thing.”

Kurt’s eyes well up with tears; he looks out at the sunflowers, _her_ flowers, row after row of golden faces, taller than him. He lets silent tears fall as his father’s grip on his shoulder strengthens. A breeze blowing through the field makes it look as though someone is walking through the rows, invisible, and that’s all it takes for him to forget where he is—the guys in the shop, the people on the street behind them, the town—and let the tears fall. 

He says, “Hummels never give up.”

“Yeah, well, don’t be so hard on yourself. Pretty sure you had something to prove.”

Kurt turns to look at his dad. “What do you mean?”

“I think that, sometime when I wasn’t looking, you decided life would be better if you didn’t need anyone or anything. If I _had_ been looking when you made that choice I sure as shit would have told you what a foolish move it was. But you were already on your way, so…”

“I’m just so… ashamed. I’ve always thought of myself as strong, a go-getter, someone who goes after what he wants, and I’ve been a total coward all this time—”

“Don’t bother with that.”

“But—”

“Kid, just do better, okay? Just do better.”

Kurt stays in Henrietta long after Burt goes back inside the shop to call in an order for parts. He folds the back down, scoots forward and lets his feet dangle over the side. His father may be right—there’s no sense dwelling on the past—but that doesn’t do much to rid him of the shame, the shame that surely pushed him out the door, away from Blaine, again.

It’s not just that he walked away from Blaine; it’s that he walked away from himself. When you give up on one great love, it’s easier to give up on the rest, and that is a shame he’ll need time to deal with. 

You can build back up strong from disappointment; you can build something livable, even beautiful, from broken pieces. But when you build an entire life on a lie, on something you forgot or refused to do, it’s hollow to the core. Now, he’ll build something new, something entirely his own, something he needs.

The cloying heat tempered by the setting sun, Kurt swings his feet. In the sunflowers he sees movement again; rustling in the breeze the leaves seem to say, “Hush, listen, all will be well.”

Kurt pulls out his phone and finds the only name that matters. He pushes the text button next to the name and taps out a message.

 **Kurt: Hey, love.**

***

 

“So, are we allowed to talk about it yet, or are you still engaged to the most eligible gay man in all the land?”

Deidre smirks and takes a sip of her Bloody Mary, bright red lipstick smudging her glass. Kurt likes her new look—longer hair, now a light brown, probably her natural color, less eye makeup and simple hoop earrings. She seems softer somehow, less angry.

As is typical during the lunch rush, The Coffee Cup on Union Square is packed with beautiful people eating twenty-dollar salads and drinking local beer. It’s their regular hangout, or was, but they haven’t seen each other since just before Thanksgiving, when she hand-delivered his final payment for the Santa Fe house project.

“I was never engaged,” Kurt replies, readying his burger with ketchup and pickles.

“Whatever. Are you done keeping up appearances, then?”

“If you’re asking if after five months I can finally I tell people I broke up with Paul, the answer is yes. He announced our ‘amicable parting of ways’ just before Christmas, actually.”

After a week in Ohio with his family, Kurt had returned to New York to find his life packed up in boxes and a fat envelope of legal documents pertaining to the “dissolution of domestic partnership.” Paul had ensconced himself in his D.C. apartment and left everything to a team of assistants and attorneys and professional movers, all who looked at Kurt with disdain.

It hurt, to see their relationship dismembered, packed up and secured with packing tape, but Kurt knew he deserved whatever ending Paul saw fit to give them. He left his ring on the dining room table with a note that simply said, “I’m sorry. I hope you find him.” It was such a Paul thing to say, he hoped it would appease him somewhat. 

The bulk of his belongings in storage, Kurt sublet his sometime-design assistant’s one-bedroom on the Upper East Side and immediately set about finding a new workshop. Determined to “follow his bliss,” as suggested by one June Merryfeather, he had cancelled every design job he could get out of without causing his clients undue stress and started assembling all he needed for his new venture—tools, equipment, ideas, interested buyers, curious retailers and supporters of any and every kind. 

His social life was severely limited, due to his agreement with Paul that he would keep quiet about their breakup until President Landry signed the marriage equality bill into law. So Kurt spent most days holed up in his studio, getting reacquainted with his first love. Every day he made something—a piece, a fragment, a possibility. And every night he sketched more ideas—retro dining chairs, a series of mirrors, abstract milagro wall art, a table from his dreams.

Slowly, calmly, over weeks and months, and with a steady confidence and newfound purpose, he had come back to himself. 

“What’s up with Mr. Sex Scandal?” Deidre asks.

“Are you referring to my one true love?” Kurt teases, waiting for her inevitable gagging noises.

“Fuck off.”

“You’re so easy, Deidre.”

“Not the first time I’ve heard that one,” she replies, munching on a long pickle for effect.

“God, why are we friends again?” Kurt asks.

“Hell if I know.”

Kurt winks at Deidre. She blushes, still not entirely comfortable with their legitimate friendship, no longer shaped by contracts or influenced by dollars. 

“Blaine is fine—good. I think,” Kurt says. “We text each other nearly every day, little things. Pictures. Updates. Silly stuff.”

“Sexy silly stuff?”

“No, we—I asked him to give me time and he’s been great about doing that,” Kurt replies. “It’s nice, actually. Before Santa Fe we had lost touch, and now it’s like the old days, but better. We have our friendship back and I needed that. I think we both did.”

Deidre looks at him like he’s speaking gibberish. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I told you I wanted some time to myself to figure things out—”

“I know, but—damn, Kurt. How much time do you need?”

“I’m not sure, it’s just—”

“Wait. Stop. I don’t want to hear your bullshit answer,” Deidre interrupts. She fishes in her purse and pulls out an envelope, slides it across the table. “Here. It’s from Adele. She’s doing a show at The Beacon tonight, some sort of album pre-release deal for her fans.”

Kurt opens the envelope to find a VIP ticket to tonight’s concert and a backstage pass. “How did you get this?”

“Mitch. He asked me to give it to you.”

Eyebrows raised, Kurt asks, “You’re still seeing him?”

Deidre blushes again, and shifts in her seat. “I like him, okay? And he seems to like me back. So just shut up already.”

“The divorce, it’s still happening?”

“So my idiot lawyers tell me.”

Kurt looks down at the envelope again, runs his finger over Adele’s name. He marvels at how much their lives have changed because of one amazing visit to that odd little jewel of a city. 

When he pulls the ticket out to get a closer look, he sees it: _Opening Act—Blaine Anderson_. 

“Blaine is in New York?”

Deidre shrugs. “Apparently.”

“He didn’t—why didn’t he tell me?”

“I suppose because he’s a goddamn gentleman and respects your wishes, or some such shit,” Deidre says. 

Kurt thinks back over the last few weeks, trying to remember any mention of Adele’s concert, any hint that Blaine would be coming to New York. They talked of Blaine’s album, now finished, and its March release date, just two months away. Kurt shared pictures of Finn’s new son, Charles Wallace (completing the pair from Erin’s favorite book, _A Wrinkle in Time_ ), all decked out in the clothes Kurt sent for him. They said, “I love you” at the end of every text. Twice, just before they hung up the phone Kurt said, “Soon, love.” But Blaine had given him no indication that he would be here in just a few days.

He can barely finish his burger, the unsettling thoughts about Blaine’s intentions so insistent he’s lost his appetite. 

“And you said this came from Adele, not Blaine?” Kurt asks.

“Yeah,” Deidre replies, eying him warily. “ _What_?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t do it.”

“Don’t do what?” Kurt asks.

“That thing you do.”

“What thing?”

“That thing where you overanalyze everything until you can’t remember why you thought it was a good idea in the first place,” Deidre explains.

Kurt slips the envelope in his wallet, flags the server down for the check. “And what good idea are you referring to, crazy girl?”

“The concert, dumbass.”

Kurt sighs. He’s had enough of her tough love and relentless cursing. “Since when are you Team Blaine, anyway?”

“Since you fucked up your entire life just for one chance with him.”

Deidre offers him a small smile, the best she can do, and when the server drops the tab off at their table without so much as a “Thanks for coming,” she slams her hand down on it before Kurt can grab it. She pulls a credit card out from the pocket on her phone case and gets up, ready to move. 

“Don’t thank me for lunch. Don’t thank me for bringing the ticket. Just go. Go.”

Kurt meant to head straight to Whole Foods on 14th Street after lunch to pick up a few things, but now he’s sits on a bench in Union Square under the cover of tall trees, an earbud in one ear, listening. 

["PRESS PLAY."](http://youtu.be/mIlNguMTPXI)

He turns the volume up loud so he can hear Blaine over the sound of children in the park, New Yorkers and tourists moving quickly through life. It’s the one song Blaine hadn’t sent to him after he recorded it; instead he heard it for the first time when he received an advanced copy of Blaine’s album in the mail, in old-school CD format. The other songs came to him one at a time, at all hours, as if Blaine couldn’t wait to share with Kurt what he made. 

The Monday after Kurt left Santa Fe, Blaine had responded to his text almost immediately, sending a photo of himself with Antonio and Sarah at The Pink. And then later that night Blaine sent him a song, along with a text message:

**Blaine: To be clear, I wrote this song for you.**

That first song, the one that Scout Records released as a single in October, the one Adele tweeted about, the one that gave Blaine a near-instant fan base, Blaine wrote it for him. 

Throughout September, the songs kept coming, always with the same message: _To be clear, I wrote this song for you._

There were new songs, and old songs, and one cover—a slowed-down version of “Teenage Dream”—which came accompanied with a variation on the same message: _To be clear, I’m singing this song for you. It was always for you._

Soon after, Kurt started sending pictures of what he made—sketches, a bench, a list labeled “FRESH START” written in green ink—along with similar messages. 

**Kurt: To be PERFECTLY clear, I love you, and I always will.**

**Kurt: To be clear, you were right. I should have told you how I felt.**

**Kurt: To be clear, I’m sorry I left.**

**Kurt: To be clear, I still want you just as much.**

It seemed they were determined not to let misunderstandings come between them, and as the months ticked by they shared frank conversations about past choices, about the reality of falling hard and fast when they were so very young. 

Kurt meant it when, on their last call, he’d said, “Soon.” He was better, more sure of himself and of them. Old hurts had been healed over long distance, as they should have been ages ago, and he had stopped blaming Blaine for his cowardice and berating himself for his own. 

_“Soon, love.”_

Now, listening to Blaine’s voice, so haunting, so sad, he wonders if he waited too long. He knew Blaine recorded the song in London after he returned home from Santa Fe—had the distance caused irrevocable harm? Was that why Blaine hadn’t told him about his trip to New York?

He’s lost count of how many times he’s played Blaine’s album, but especially this song. In his studio, he listens to it on repeat while he works. Sometimes, when he’s so exhausted from the work, his arms and back too sore to continue, he’ll sit on the floor with his back against the wall, listening. Repeat, listen, repeat, listen; Blaine’s words, and music, and voice soothe him, mend him, inspire him to both honor and let go of all that once was.

Pulling Blaine’s CD out of his bag, he re-reads Blaine’s acknowledgments for what seems like the twentieth time:

_I am ridiculously lucky to have a host of collaborators, champions and friends to whom I owe a stiff drink and my undying gratitude: Adele, my confidante (and backup singer!); Mitchell Shepard, my producer and mentor; Barry Weber, Angel Lugio, Kit Jordan and Lulu B., my “on-loan” band; Suzy Crane, my long-suffering manager; Shep Vasovic, Curtis Fogg and everyone at Scout; everyone at Galisteo Studios in New Mexico and Sound Off in London._

_Thank you U2 and Katy Perry for permitting me to play with your songs._

_For reasons known only to them, I’d also like to thank the Dalton Academy Warblers, Class of 2012 (except Jeff); Jim and Ruth, my family; Antonio, Sarah and the good people of Santa Fe, New Mexico. See you at The Pink—next round’s on me._

_You might have noticed that there are no liner notes for this album. The reason for this is simple: Every single song—every word, every note, every whisper—is for you, Kurt. Baby, I never want you to wonder, “Is this song meant for me?” It’s all you, as ever. In the words of e.e. cummings_ , I carry your heart. (I carry it in my heart.) 

What is he waiting for? Blaine could not be clearer. And yet something is holding Kurt back, keeping him from saying, “I need you. Please come. I’m ready.”

Hours later, Kurt boards the #4 train bound for the Upper East Side, two grocery bags in tow. Somewhere between the park and the frozen food aisle he decided not to go to Adele’s concert. If Blaine had wanted Kurt to attend, surely he would have told him, invited him himself. He doesn’t want to miss Blaine’s debut, but still… he’ll stay in instead and text Blaine after the show.

The car is packed with people, so there’s no place to sit. Kurt shifts both bags to one hand and grips the nearest pole. Next to him a man sits with a large, skinny aspen sapling between his legs. It reaches all the way up to the top of the car. “New York, oh my god,” Kurt says, still mystified by the strange things he sees both above and below ground. 

He’s reminded of the aspen trees on the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, shimmering in the breeze. Suddenly he’s met with an intense longing, once reserved for an elusive boy. 

_Can you fall in love with a city? Can you miss it like a friend?_

It’s an odd feeling, missing a place you don’t really like and surely never wanted to visit in the first place. He speaks to Antonio a few times a month and sometimes Sarah, if she’s home when he calls. But the calls never satisfy his desire to walk the dusty, narrow streets of downtown Santa Fe, the sunset at his back.

The train coming up on 86th Street, he prepares to get off and head home. He can hear it before the doors open, before a dozen people push past him to get off and on with their lives, before he falls in line behind them: ["the unmistakable sound of the song that changed everything."](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pcxbSs0TrWk)

The moment the doors slide open, Kurt steps off to follow the sound of the busker singing Adele’s “Someone Like You.” Positioned near the stairs, beating a dirty white bucket for a drum, a dark-skinned man in gently worn attire, hat as his feet, sings beautifully, sings his heart out. He sings the song that seeped into Kurt’s bones, the song that moved his heart just enough, enough to try.

Suddenly he realizes he’s been playing the same old game—testing Blaine’s patience, limiting contact and letting distance fuel new insecurities. He’s been waiting for Blaine to come find him away from the magic of Santa Fe, outside of their last best chance.

Dropping a five-dollar bill in the hat and his groceries next to it, Kurt rushes for the stairs, taking them two at a time. Just as he had that horrible morning after Paul arrived, his mind races with one thought: _Blaine, Blaine, Blaine, Blaine._

_I’m such an idiot. I’ve been waiting for him all this time, just like before. Telling him I need space and time and secretly hoping he’ll come for me, defy my reasons and come for me. I’ve telling him to wait while secretly waiting for him to show up._

["PRESS PLAY"](http://youtu.be/3FsrPEUt2Dg)

On the street, he hails a cab and tries to remember to breathe as the driver cuts across Central Park on the byway. He looks at his phone: the concert is about to start. Once on Broadway the traffic slows, and by 80th Street, Kurt is out of the cab and running the remaining four blocks.

Inside the venue, the sound is deafening. The place is teeming with screaming girls (and some boys); they’re screaming for Blaine. The concert has started, a song just beginning. Kurt skirts the edge of the crowd looking for a decent view of the stage, avoiding the VIP section so as not to be spotted. He doesn’t want to mess with Blaine’s performance by surprising him.

The song swells and builds and he lets his heart swell along with it, lets the music fill him. He screams with the girls, watches Blaine’s every move as stands there, backlit, his fingers moving swiftly on his guitar as he plays the familiar opening riff from “Where the Streets Have No Name.”

It’s exhilarating. Here he stands among the crowd again, watching this boy, _his man_ , perform for a room full of adoring fans. _“The Warblers are like rock stars_.” Kurt laughs, because now, it’s true.

Gorgeous in a sweat-soaked plain white t-shirt and jeans, Blaine is mesmerizing. He works the crowd with that same charisma that garnered him every Warbler solo, stacks of phone numbers—from girls and boys, alike—ridiculous opportunities (hello, Adele!), friends for days, and Kurt. He had Kurt from the first moment they met.

Blaine is beautiful. 

Blaine is who he was always meant to be.

Blaine is _here_. And his, ever his.

Kurt is alight with the magic that is a Blaine Anderson performance, Kurt's face one giant grin, just as it was that very first day fourteen years ago. He remembers all of the silliness and comfort, now, all of the joy. He remembers the friendship, perfect, this boy who made him laugh and kept him safe and called him home. 

And he remembers nine enchanting days—for Kurt, a dream fulfilled; and for Blaine, a miracle; an answered prayer. 

Kurt sings along to every song, smiles as Adele joins Blaine onstage for “Ho Hey” and “Least Complicated.” Kurt dances, and sings some more and whistles as loud as he can. Now, he can adore him, because he, too, has come into his own. Now, he can love him completely, come to him willingly, and say yes to all of it, without fear.

After his last song, Blaine thanks the audience, his band, and Adele, sweat pouring down his handsome face. Kurt knows Blaine will probably have to change for Adele’s set, but he can’t wait. He has to see him now. Now that he understands, now that he’s seen him, now that he knows, he can’t wait one more minute.

It takes him a good ten minutes to push through the crowd, and another ten minutes to wait for security to confirm his name is on the list. By the time he’s ushered through a side door, Adele has taken the stage. He looks over at her briefly, and, remarkably, despite the massive room, she spots him. Her smile is huge as she waves at him, motions for him to go further backstage.

As he slides in through the door he hears her say to the crowd, “Excuse me while I switch things up a bit. Have to sing a song for two friends.”

["PRESS PLAY (AND WATCH IT AFTER THE END OF THE STORY)"](http://youtu.be/axBMs-qK2t4)

Inside there is a second checkpoint. Flashing his backstage pass, Kurt winds around the darkened wings, looking for Blaine. He finds him quickly, bending down over his guitar case as he fastens it shut. Kurt watches as Blaine stands up and moves toward the exit, a determined look on his face. 

When Blaine sees him standing there in the shadows he stops, lets his guitar case fall to the floor. Kurt’s heart beats so fast he wonders if Blaine can hear it over the din of the crowd.

“Hi,” Kurt says, breaking the tension.

“Hi.”

“Adele invited me,” Kurt explains.

Blaine smiles and looks off on to the stage. “She’s a romantic. What can I say?”

“Blaine, I—I’ve been an idiot.”

Blaine takes a few steps closer. He laughs and says, “Again?”

“Yeah.”

“At some point I stopped needing space and started needing you to show up on my doorstep with flowers and a well-written plea,” Kurt says, offering Blaine a rueful smile. 

“I can do that. You still love peonies, right?”

Kurt laughs, takes a few steps closer. “I’m so sorry—”

“I think we’re done being sorry. Okay? Can we be done?”

“I think so.”

“Good. All I want is you, Kurt. However I can get you.”

Just a few feet between them now, all that’s left of half a lifetime of divide. Just a few steps and he’ll be in Blaine’s arms, press his lips to his skin, grip his damp shirt and hold on tightly, so tightly. Just a few seconds and he’ll surrender to his forever man; he’ll let it all unfold as it would, without his interference, without restraint. Just a moment now and he’ll say _yes, and please, and won’t you give me this, and aren't we perfect for each other, and I adore you, please come home with me_. 

“To be clear," Kurt starts, "I don’t need any more space, or time, or reassurance. I just want you. All of you. In London, or here, or some other place. To be totally, completely, absolutely clear, I’m asking you, Blaine Warbler, if you will be mine.”

“You’re coming for me this time, huh?” Blaine says, his eyes sparkling.

“Yup. I’m taking a chance.” Kurt notices Blaine’s leather jacket and says, “Were you going somewhere?”

“I was coming to find you.”

Kurt closes the distance between them, pulls Blaine close and says, “I found you fir—”

Blaine’s mouth is on his before he can finish his sentence. The kiss is desperate, all of their patience gone. He hears the crowd sing along with Adele: _“I’ve known it from the moment that we met. There’s no doubt in my mind where you belong.”_ Kurt lets himself go, lets Blaine pull him into this life he always wanted, lets him love him, lets him in. 

In between kisses, Blaine says, “Say it. Tell me again.”

Kurt speaks the words onto Blaine’s lips. “You are so in love with me. And I am so in love with you.”

“Yes, baby. Yes. _Yes_.”

When they stop to breathe, Kurt rests his head on Blaine’s shoulder. They begin to sway back and forth, dancing, recalling that night in August when Adele’s voice, and the song, set them free. 

He lifts his head to see Adele is watching them from the stage. He watches them, Blaine beaming at Adele, and Adele shining back at him, her eyes filling with tears. Kurt steps back a bit. He says, “Do you need to get out there? You promised you’d never walk out on one of her concerts again. I can go back out—”

“No. Stay by me tonight. Don’t leave my side.”

He slips back into Blaine’s arms and they watch Adele sing, her voice as clear and perfect as the first time he heard her cover of “Make You Feel My Love” on the radio. When she sings, “ _I could make you happy, make your dreams come true_ ,” it’s for them, because she knows, because she loves them.

She sings, “ _No there’s nothing that I wouldn’t do_ ,” and then suddenly she stops and turns away from the microphone. She’s overcome; she can’t finish the song. She tries to sing the next line, but she’s too choked up. 

Blaine tenses in Kurt’s arms. He can sense Blaine wants to run out there, but then she’s smiling through tears and turning the microphone back on the crowd. They sing the next line for her: “To make you feel my love.”

Adele salutes the audience and steps offstage for a moment to take a few deep breaths. She salutes Kurt and Blaine as well, with a big smile, then heads back onstage to thunderous applause.

Blaine hugs Kurt, laughs into his ear. When he pulls back he says, “You still owe me three days.”

Kurt laughs with him. “They’re all yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The epilogue will be up later tonight, as well as a note of thanks.
> 
> :)


	14. Epilogue

Kurt Hummel is not a fan of New Mexico—all of that brown, and tan, and more brown. And the snow. And too-fucking-slow sanding trucks and plows that would never make it through an Ohio winter. And the blocks and blocks of tinsel-wrapped mailboxes. And tourists.

“At least it’s not Texas,” Kurt mutters, glaring at a Toyota 4-Runner driving at a snail’s pace down Cerillos Road. In a raised voice he adds, “Why do they even bother buying these vehicles, when they drive like Rachel Berry with a learner’s permit? Six weeks I was forced to sit behind a panicked Mr. Schuester while she logged her practice hours to get that damn certificate. Stupid bureaucracy; I could drive a stick shift when I was twelve years old! Sitting in the car with Rachel was hell on earth, and this is a close second.”

“Calm down, kid. We’ll get there.”

Kurt glances in his rearview mirror at his dad in the first backseat row next to Erin and Meg, then at Finn and little Charles, singing a silly tune. Sitting in the passenger seat next to him, Carole is wide-eyed, camera raised for photo opportunities. She wears the first of several obnoxious Christmas sweaters she undoubtedly brought along for the trip. And somehow, Kurt can’t seem to make himself care. He’s too happy. He’s got a car full of family and an amazing visit planned for everyone in this magical city—who cares if he has to stare at a blue-sequined snowman for the next few hours?

Kurt may not be a _fan_ of New Mexico—he may find it frustrating, and too dry, and remote as hell; he may even finally understand why the locals refer to the “Land of Enchantment” as the “Land of Entrapment”—but he most definitely loves this city.

It took them two years to find a house they could afford and that Kurt could stand to live in while they renovated it. They kept Blaine’s flat in London and Kurt’s apartment in New York; their careers—Blaine’s music and Kurt’s furniture line, Haven by Hummel—demand that they spend a great deal of time in both places. But deciding on Santa Fe as their permanent residence was easy for both of them. Here, they found each other again. Here, they were accepted and loved. Here, they became the men they always intended to be.

“Dad, see the mountain range there, at the edge of the city? Those are the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, the southern Rockies,” he says. “If you look to your left you can see the summit, there, all covered in snow. We call it ‘Baldy,’ for obvious reasons, and you can see it from the Rio Grande.” 

“No kidding,” Burt says, craning to look out the front window. 

Blaine is waiting in the gravel driveway when they pull up, wearing the heather sweater Kurt bought him last Christmas, a pair of jeans and a smile brighter than the sun. He claps his hands as Meg hops out of the car. She runs right to him, shouting, “Uncle Blaine!” and he scoops her up into a tight hug. 

“Gosh, you’re big,” he says. “Stop growing!”

Her little crush on Blaine still in full force, Meg giggles and hangs on to his neck. _I understand, little girl. Believe me_.

Kurt smiles warmly at the pair and then helps his dad and Erin unload the trunk as Finn gathers Charles and his things. After everyone shuffles inside, after the family is situated and the house tour complete, Blaine steals Kurt away to the kitchen to help him with dinner, and pulls him into the pantry. Once inside, he takes Kurt’s face in his hands and kisses him soundly, deeply, like the only thing that matters is Kurt’s mouth, Kurt’s tongue, the swell of his bottom lip, still sore from last night’s adventures.

Blaine wraps Kurt up in his arms, leans him back against the pantry door and says, “Hi, baby.”

“Missed me? I was only gone three hours.”

“I’m just happy.”

“Yeah. So much.” 

More kissing, a little groping and still more kissing, until a knock on the door and a familiar voice interrupts them. “Kurt, can you take your hands off your husband long enough to kiss your goddaughter?”

Kurt turns in Blaine’s arms and opens the door to find Antonio standing in their kitchen, holding baby Cora. Not even six months old, she is the perfect combination of Antonio and Sarah—dark hair, a sweet face and, even at her young age, a wise expression. Kurt wonders if, like her father and great-grandmother before her, she will be able to spot soul-love, too.

Baby now in his arms, Kurt says, “Where’s Sarah?”

“She’s bringing some of the kids over in the van. They’ll meet us there,” Antonio replies.

Blaine kisses Cora as he walks toward the stove. “I’ll just start on the hot chocolate. Did you bring the extra thermoses, Antonio?” 

“In the bag,” Antonio says, pointing to a large paper shopping bag on the counter.

Kurt squeezes Cora, takes her with him as he goes to explain the plan for the night to his family.

 

On his way to grab a few extra wool blankets for their excursion, Blaine runs right into to his sister-in-law in the guest hallway, studying the row of framed, handwritten song lyrics. Kurt had installed miniature spotlights above each piece, his own design, which made the narrow hallway seem bigger and gave it the feel of a tucked away space in an art gallery.

“Oops, didn’t mean to run you over,” Blaine says, opening the guest linen closet. He roots around looking for the new Hudson Bay blankets his mother sent from her last online shopping adventure. 

“This one is my favorite,” Erin says, pointing to a song he knows all too well. She leans in and stands on her tiptoes to get a closer look. 

“You’re not sick of it, then, I take it,” he teases, finding the blankets on the bottom shelf. He shuts the closet door.

“Never. Like I said; it’s my favorite,” Erin replies. “You won a Grammy for this, right?”

“Yup. I co-wrote it with Adele.”

“Why is most of the song in black ink, and this part in purple,” she asks, pointing to toward the bottom of the page.

Blaine moves to stand next to her, looking at the paper. A few coffee drip stains on the top left corner, a few lines crossed out in red, it’s the verse in purple permanent marker—all he could find in the studio that day—that stands out.

“I wrote those lyrics the day after Kurt left Santa Fe,” Blaine explains.

“Ah yes,” Erin replies, “the weekend of the surprise visit from Uncle Kurt.” 

Erin turns to face Blaine, leans one hip against the wall. Aside from her short stature, Erin is the physical opposite of Rachel Berry: curvy (or “stacked,” as Finn likes to call his wife) and soft, with warm, patient eyes and, though tempered by marriage and motherhood, a hint of wildness about her. 

“We’d been trying to get the song right for weeks, and then—well, you probably already know the story.”

“I may have heard bits and pieces. Know what else I heard?”

“Oh no, I don’t like that tone, Mrs. Hudson,” he teases, shifting the blankets to get a better grip on the blankets in his arms. “The last time you used that tone on me I ended up getting toasted at Meg’s soccer game. That’s the last time I trust you to make any drink for me, especially hot cider.”

“No one knew, god,” she says, with a good-natured eye-roll. “I _heard_ that you like to serenade people. Sometimes in public places.”

Blaine laughs. “Erin, I perform in front of thousands of people—”

“Not the same thing! A serenade is personal.”

“Are you asking me to sing to you?” 

Erin bounces on the balls of her feet. “Come on—it’s my favorite. Please? Consider it my Christmas present.”

“So I can take back that turquoise choker we bought for you up in Taos?”

“No way!”

Blaine laughs again, sets the blankets on the floor. He leans back against the wall, facing the lyrics he knows by heart, and sings:

_Forever Man_

_A girl like me_  
Don’t have as many options as you see  
At least, not the kind that means the world to me. 

_I was in a world of doubt_  
All my dreams, my moments going south  
Until you took me by the hand, up, up, and out. 

_You’re not a sometime thing, no_  
You’re not my summer fling  
You’re not a line drawn in the sand. 

_You’re not my maybe, baby_  
You’re not my compromise  
Darling you’re my everything, forever man. 

_A girl like me_  
Wants the stuff no Billboard rocket can buy  
That look you give that always makes me sigh 

_It was always you_  
Though I held out to see it through  
And it feels so right to tell you now that it’s true 

_You’re not a sometime thing, no_  
You’re not my summer fling  
You’re not a line drawn in the sand. 

_You’re not my maybe, baby_  
You’re not my compromise  
Darling you’re my everything, forever man. 

__**If there is only this, if there is only you  
** Then I’ll be happy until my dying day  
There is nothing temporary about that thing you do  
Or the way my heart asks to stay and stay. 

_You’re not a sometime thing, no_  
You’re not my summer fling  
You’re not a line drawn in the sand. 

_You’re not my maybe, baby_  
You’re not my compromise  
Darling you’re my everything, forever man. 

 

It’s only a few blocks to Canyon Road from their house, and since it’s a relatively warm winter night they decide to bundle up the kids and walk. The babies asleep in their strollers, the family joins other Santa Feans and tourists making their way to the iconic Christmas Eve Walk. Meg bounces with excitement; she’s never been allowed to stay up this late before. 

Farolitos, paper bag lanterns filled halfway with sand and lit by votive candles, line both sides of the sidewalks, and plastic replicas dot the roofline of nearly every adobe house and gallery along the walk. It’s magical, like a winter fairyland, with bonfires on every other corner, carolers strolling along the winding street and art galleries open to share mulled wine, cider and cookies. 

They find Sarah and the Alex Marin House kids halfway up the road, waiting for them next to a bonfire. After she checks on her baby, hugs everyone in the group and tucks her hand into the crook of Kurt’s arm, Sarah says, “See? Isn’t this the most beautiful thing?”

Kurt nods, kisses her on the forehead and watches as she and the others walk ahead. They’re a motley crew, tall men with children and the tiny women they love. He smiles as his dad takes hold of the stroller for Antonio so he can slip into a gallery for whatever they’re offering. 

Kurt is so full up with the night, with his family, old and new, with the joy of standing on his true path, with this man he loves completely and the brilliant possibilities set before them, with the generous gift of… 

“Grace,” Blaine says, breaking into Kurt’s thoughts. 

“Hmm?”

“I’ve been thinking about our favorite argument,” Blaine replies, slowing down to walk in step with Kurt.

“The one where I say our impromptu reunion was random and you say it was fate?” Kurt asks, a gentle tease in his tone.

“That’s the one.”

“And?”

“And I’ve come to believe that we were both wrong,” Blaine explains. He stops and turns to stand in front of Kurt, his face illuminated by hundreds of votive candles and the soft light emanating from a nearby gallery.

“It wasn’t fate, or chance. It was grace.”

The mellow-sweet feeling Kurt has come to know so well, the feeling that replaced all of his worries, and regrets, and fears—that feeling washes over him now, ushering in perfect joy. He beams at Blaine, wraps his right arm around him at the neck and pulls him in for a hard kiss that says _Love, my love, how could I have doubted you for a moment?_

When the kiss ends Blaine laughs, steps back a bit and looks up ahead on the road at their families. He holds his hand out to Kurt. “Coming?”

 

That night, Blaine is so, so grateful Kurt talked him into a Spanish-style house with guest quarters in a separate wing. The family tucked away on the other side of the house, Blaine decides it’s time for another new tradition: Christmas Eve Sex. 

They’ve been stocking up on cute customs, and silly anniversaries, and other “couple” rituals ever since the week he spent in New York, holed up in Kurt’s sublet on the Upper East Side. They reasoned they had a lot of lost time to make up for, and therefore should get a pass on gag-inducing antics. It had started out genuine, but as was their way, quickly devolved into a game, another reason to laugh. All those years they’d spent longing for these moments and somehow poking fun at the cliché of it all released them from the burden of regret, of missing something they’d never had.

Even after more than two years together, he still finds the sight of Kurt undressing ridiculously distracting, to the point where he often forgets whatever he’s doing and stands there, staring, mouth agape, like a teenager getting his first peek at a naked boy.

Kurt is already down to his navy briefs when he snaps his fingers in front of Blaine’s face. “Blaine?”

“Hmm? What?”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Sorry, I—”

“Love.”

“Hmm?”

“Take off your clothes.”

Blaine watches as Kurt pulls back the salmon-colored duvet, climbs on to the bed and moves to the middle. He spreads out, lazy, his back mostly on the bed and his shoulders up against the headboard. Blaine steps out of his jeans, pulls his sweater and undershirt over his head. Socks off, he leaves his gray briefs on and climbs in the bed after Kurt. 

Kurt’s knees too close together, Blaine taps the right one twice with is hand.

Kurt smirks. “Oh, _really_?”

“Yes, really. Spread ‘em.”

“I see marriage has done absolutely nothing for you in the romance department, Mr. Anderson,” Kurt teases, pressing his legs together, even closer.

Blaine leans over the top of Kurt’s knees, hands on the bed on either side of Kurt’s hips and says, “Marriage has done everything for me.”

Kurt beams, fans himself with his right hand. Blaine laughs and then pulls Kurt’s legs down flat. 

“I bet I could get you to spread your legs,” Blaine teases.

Blaine presses his body down on top of Kurt’s, covers him. He grinds down on Kurt’s hardening cock, tries to line them up just so, but the position is all wrong. 

Kurt wraps his arms around Blaine’s back, pulls him closer. “You could just ask.”

Blaine lips graze Kurt’s cheek as he leans in, mouth wet, and whispers, “Would you spread your legs for me, baby?”

Kurt’s long legs open and fall to the side so fast, it’s as if Blaine pushed a button. Blaine adjusts his position and soon it’s the perfect friction of thin cotton on cotton, as Blaine presses down, down, down onto Kurt’s cock. Blaine scoots back a bit, presses his bulge further down between Kurt’s legs, a promise. Up and down, Blaine works his clothed cock under Kurt’s balls, over his hole, the confines of their briefs a delicious tease. All the while Blaine talks, his voice deep and soft: “Gonna fuck you. Flip you over and slide right in, fuck you hard.”

Blaine works Kurt over until Kurt’s fingers slip under the waistband of Blaine’s briefs and tug. 

“Off,” Kurt whines. 

Blaine obliges. 

The sex is so good between them, so much fun; Blaine has never had it like this before, and he’s frankly a little surprised their sex life has only improved over time. To be married to the star of your some of your earliest sexual fantasies is an opportunity for deep satisfaction and serious wish fulfillment, say nothing of the love, hot and close in _uh uh uh_ rhythm; the love, sweet and quiet, a smile kissed into a sweaty hip bone; the love, wrapped up in a tight hug, sure. 

That night he fucks Kurt long and deep, Kurt’s face pressed into a goose down pillow to muffle the sound. Blaine no longer feels compelled to stare into Kurt’s eyes every time he fucks him, for fear that he would forget, that it was the last time. Now, he wakes up to those beautiful, ever-changing eyes every morning. Now, he is his.

After, Kurt traces stars onto Blaine’s chest and belly, and Blaine listens to the sound of their house, quiet, their city, asleep. From their bedroom window he can see a row of Farolitos adorning the adobe wall that separates the neighbor’s yard from their own. The lights flicker, and dance, casting shadows on the stucco. The picture reminds him of the candles he lit in Chimayò: four sacred hearts, one prayer.

He stills Kurt’s hand, brings it up to his mouth and kisses his fingers. _Blessed_.

 

Kurt wakes early to the smell of pancakes and the sound of Blaine banging around in the kitchen. It sounds like he’s singing intermittently—working out a song for Adele’s new album; they start recording in the spring. “Get Here” is a song about missing someone, about needing someone so deeply you’ll do anything to get him or her closer to you. Blaine wrote it when they were still apart, when the distance was so hard on Blaine, the waiting. It was painful then; now, it’s just a good song, on its way to being great.

Fresh pajamas on, Kurt goes in search of his husband. He finds him stacking pancakes onto a plate in the oven to keep warm until the rest of the house wakes. 

When Blaine notices Kurt, he lights up. “Merry Christmas, baby.” 

Kurt wraps Blaine up in a hug, kisses his ear. “Merry Christmas. Anyone up yet?”

“No. We were out so late at the walk,” Blaine replies with a shrug.

“You making my mom’s ‘special occasion pancakes?’” Kurt asks.

“Yup.”

“Thanks, love.”

A mug of coffee placed in front of him at the kitchen island, Kurt eases into the day. There will be breakfast, and presents, and naps, in the afternoon. Carole will make a Christmas ham. Since most of the Alex Marin kids will be joining relatives for Christmas dinner, they’ll have Wyatt and Erick—still together, despite their young age and unfortunate circumstances—over for the day. His daughter studying abroad and unable to join him for the holiday, Mitch will join them at some point. They’ll call Adele, and Deidre, and Blaine’s parents. They’ll take pictures, and laugh, and show their family the city, dressed up for the holiday with four inches of fresh snow.

But for now there is only them.

Still sleepy, Kurt shuffles out to the foyer, picks up the stack of mail and small packages that arrived yesterday, and returns to the kitchen.

“Deidre said she sent a copy of her book,” Kurt says.

“ _Fuck You, You Fucking Fuckers?_ ” 

“Blaine. Stop being mean about it,” Kurt says, trying not laugh.

“Oh what—like _The Ex-Wive’s Guide to Happy Endings_ is any better.”

Kurt does laugh, then. And he’s still laughing when he opens a padded envelope addressed to both of them. Looking at the return address, he tears in to the envelope. He had no idea _this_ would be ready in time for his family’s visit.

He reaches in the envelope and pulls out a note and a DVD, which he holds up for Blaine to see. “From Paul,” he says. 

“Already?”

“Guess so,” Kurt says. He leans to the side, listening for sounds of the house waking up. “Should we watch it without them?”

Blaine turns off the stove, moves over to the other side of the island and opens his laptop. “We’ll just watch our part. Then we can watch the whole thing together after presents.”

Paul’s request had come as a surprise. Just a few months after Kurt and Blaine married, Paul’s assistant April contacted Kurt and asked if he and his “new husband” would be willing to participate in a documentary about life after the National Marriage Equality bill. Kurt had heard about Paul’s engagement through friends—Samuel, a rising young filmmaker—but still, it seemed odd. He should have known Paul simply wanted video evidence that they had ended on amicable terms. 

Blaine forwards until their segment comes up, then presses play. Shot in a studio in Manhattan, at first Kurt and Blaine seem a bit stiff, discussing the basics of their marriage, where they live, if they want to have children. 

Then, the interviewer asks them how long they’ve been together. Onscreen, they both start laughing.

“Umm, _that_ is a point of contention,” Kurt says into the camera, Blaine still giggling. 

“Yeah, we’ll just end up arguing. You don’t want arguing.”

“Because I say it started in Santa Fe three years ago—” Kurt says.

“—And I say it started seventeen years ago, when we met,” Blaine says.

“I was walking down a staircase—”

“You were spying—”

“Alright, yes. I was spying. I was a cute spy—”

“The cutest. And you said—”

“’Excuse me, can I ask you a question?’”

“And that was it,” Blaine says, smiling into the camera.

“What was it?” Kurt asks, onscreen.

“Love.”

“You were hardly in love with me then,” Kurt says. 

“Okay, but soon after—”

“Years, Blaine. Years, after.”

“No, don’t you remember?”

In the kitchen, Kurt and Blaine move closer together; they know what’s coming. 

“Remember what?” Kurt asks, onscreen.

Onscreen, Blaine looks at Kurt, takes his hand and pulls it into his lap, and then looks right a the camera. “I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t in love with him.”

Onscreen, Kurt looks fondly at Blaine and says, “Our wedding was nice.”

“Yeah, and it only took three months to get there.”

“Three months and fifteen years,” Kurt says.

Onscreen, Blaine kisses Kurt and says, “Worth it.”

In the kitchen, Blaine sits, pulls Kurt into his lap. He wraps his arm around Kurt’s waist, holding him there. On the video, the interview has moved on to a different couple. 

They’re quiet for a moment, and then Blaine says, “Let’s watch it again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ten thousand thanks to all of you, lovely readers. I'll post a formal thank you tomorrow on my Tumblr.


End file.
